


505

by kashxy



Category: Iron Man - Fandom, Spider-Man: Far From Home
Genre: Aged up! Peter Parker, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Blackmail, Comicverse, Comicverse Peter Parker, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, Emotional Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Isolation, M/M, Manipulation, Slow Burn, Workplace Romance, domestic abuse, not mcu!, unhappy relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:28:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25146217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashxy/pseuds/kashxy
Summary: Peter had never experienced a love like this, a love so intense that it makes his heart bleed into everything he does. It’s intoxicating, the way Quentin’s fingers thread through his hair, the way he kisses him, the way he holds him like he’d never ever let go.The love is so perfect that Peter doesn’t even notice when the fingers in his hair begin to pull.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Aunt May, Peter Parker & Ned Leeds, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Quentin Beck, Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes
Comments: 37
Kudos: 82





	1. you’re something else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is comic verse peter parker x quentin beck. i use a variety of people in my mind when i imagine peter in this story but 16 year old tom holland peter parker IS NOT one of them. 
> 
> in this story, peter is a 20 year old working at SI, a mature adult. he is not a child like he is in the mcu :) 
> 
> that being said, enjoy! :)

Coffee, as Peter finds out exactly two hours and fifteen minutes into the first shift of his incredibly well paid new internship at Stark Industries, stays piping hot even after its been in a flask for thirty minutes.

Because, of course, as Parker luck would have it, he's pouring the coffee from his flask into a porcelain mug, his first break, and the first chance he's had to eat in the last twenty four hours, when the opening of the break room's door startles him and he spills the hot liquid right down the front of the smartest (and only) shirt he owns.

He jumps back, breath hitching in his throat as tears sting to his eyes. He _can't_ cry on his first day.

"Hey, you okay?" A voice says from behind him, careful and concerned and Peter just wants the ground to swallow him whole. 

"Yeah, yeah, sorry, it's nothing, I'll clean this right up, I-" Peter trails off as he turns, one hand clutching a pile of napkins, the other still holding that stupid flask. 

And suddenly, since the first time he'd gotten the acceptance letter and had rambled for three hours straight, Peter's speechless.

Quentin Beck stands in front of him, AKA, the inventor of a carefully crafted, still-in-development CGI holographic tool to be used to teach surgeons the ins and outs of human autopsy in half the time it would take lecturers to book hospital rooms, gain consent, and allow each and every student a fair shot. Quentin Beck, AKA one of the hottest men Peter had seen on the website photos but, god, photos just don’t do him justice. His work (and his face) is groundbreaking, to say the least, and just _wait_ till he tells MJ about this.

He's also technically Peter's boss. The first half of his internship, he has to trail along with another group of students, shadowing the holographic department. If you can make it there, he remembers Tony Stark telling them in a pre-recorded video message playing on the big screen, you can make it anywhere. So it's not all that appropriate when Peter's eyes drift down to his _boss's_ lips, unable to tear them away as they move, his tongue licking between his teeth, a hand grazing at the light stubble on his jawline. Peter can't even feel the cooling coffee drenching his shirt, his brain short wiring because, _god_ , pictures really _don't_ do him justice, and his shirt's unbuttoned at the top and his hair is almost perfectly messy in the way Peter can never get his own and-

"It won't work." Quentin says, shocking Peter out of his daydream. He looks at him in barely disguised horror, heart leaping from his chest to the bottom of his throat and back again. Had he been speaking out loud? 

"The coffee," He offers, a hand gesturing to where Peter’s absentmindedly dabbing at the left side of his shirt where it’s going see through. Fuck. "It'll stain. Where are you supposed to be?"

"Um, I'm an intern, s-sir." He croaks, internally cringing at the stutter. "First day."

Quentin nods, a knowing smile playing at his lips. "You got anything to change into?"

Peter shakes his head immediately. They didn't get their Stark Industries uniform until after three week, when the first section is over, and Peter never had a reason to own anything other than one smart shirt; he'd be damned if he was going to wear Ben's to work. Because, well - Parker luck.

"I think I've got something." Quentin says, turning, his bag still in the crook of his arm. "Unless that's inappropriate for you. Sorry; we're a close bunch here." 

There's something hidden behind his voice, something Peter can't put his finger on, but he nods gratefully anyway and throws the cooling coffee in the sink, twisting the cap onto the flask as he goes. Quentin's waiting for him, his face open and friendly, like he's not two hours late. That's why he'd gotten an early break, Peter remembers; no point sitting in an empty classroom.

"You're one of my new students?" He asks, holding a door for Peter that leads down a flight of stairs. "I thought you'd have been later than me."

"We started at eight." Peter says, unable to bite his tongue. "It's ten. We didn't know what to do."

He almost instantly regrets it, his whole body flushing red, but before he can get on his knees and apologise profusely, Quentin laughs. It's not bitter either, more like an appreciative laugh that makes Peter stand a little straighter.

"That's fair. I thought I sent an email." He sees Peter's blank expression and laughs again, shaking his head. "I was in Long Island, got here as quick as I could in New York traffic. You know how it is."

Peter doesn't, because he can't afford to learn how to drive, but he nods anyway. 

They don't speak as they round a corner and reach a long row of lockers, passing a couple of Quentin's (and soon to be Peter's) colleagues. He takes a key from his pocket and heads straight for locker 505, which is surprisingly bare besides a few stray bits of blu-tac. Peter realises with a sudden burning shame that in the workplace, people don't decorate their lockers. It somehow makes him feel even smaller than he already does.

"Here," Quentin says, blinking Peter out of his daydream. He hands him a soft blue shirt with the Stark Industries logo on the left chest. "There's a little closet just round the corner, I'll wait for you here?"

He says it as a question, but Peter can only count on him not moving a muscle. He doesn't think he'll ever map this place out in the way everyone else seems to. There's too many rooms, too many floors, too much bustling for him to slow down and realise where he is.

The shirt is, as expected, miles too big for him, but he tucks it into his jeans and tries to prepare himself for the looks he'll get. An intern, wearing a SI shirt on his first day, which also happens to be sizes too big for him? Like that wouldn't cause a stir.

When he leaves the closet, clutching his coffee ridden shirt in his hands, Quentin is exactly where he said he'd be. He's leaning against his locker, one hand covering his face. He looks tired.

"Thank you," Peter says as he approaches, nerves rolling off him in waves. "I wouldn't want to start my first day in a half see through shirt." 

He laughs, tries to make light of it, but Quentin just smiles, eyes on Peter's torso for a second too long. When he looks back up, his eyes are slightly darker, his left eyelid creased like he's trying to work something out. He locks eyes with Peter again, neither of them speaking, Quentin's eyes roaming his face while Peter just _stands there_ , because what else can he do?

"Can you get me a coffee?" Quentin clears his throat, looking past Peter's shoulder down the corridor. "Don't want to be seen walking in with your boss on your first day do you? Buy yourself something too."

His tone is light as he hands Peter a small card and heads back up the stairs. He looks down at the shirt, at the card, and then back to the shirt. It feels warm, smells the way he assumes Quentin must, a mix of faint aftershave and cinnamon. It’s comforting in a way Peter’s never experienced before. 

He shakes his head and turns back to the stairs, blocking any intruding thoughts threatening his shot at SI, only to look up and down and back again. How the fuck does he get back to the lab?

*

He finds it eventually, with the help of several colleagues he gathers up the courage to hound down, and stumbles through the door to Quentin’s lab with a coffee in one hand, a bottle of orange juice, and a nearly empty folder with twenty minutes to spare before eleven. 

Everyone turns to look at him as he makes his way through the crowd of people, handing Quentin his coffee without a word. The man regards him in gratitude, but Peter’s focused on the looks his fellow interns are giving him. 

It’s Flash who speaks first, a boy he’s been in education with since eighth grade when he got transferred to MIT, the same boy who’d always found a way to hash it out with everything Peter did, somehow. 

“Where’d you get the merch from, Parker?” He whistles, and then there’s 7 pairs of eyes on his SI shirt. “Fucked your way to the top?” 

It’s lower, but Quentin’s close enough to Peter that he catches it.

“I’d think that’s quite enough, Eugene.” He says. “Perhaps you should focus on the hologram at your fingers that looks ready to collapse.” 

They all turn to Flash’s small computer, the hologram lit up a few inches from the outside layer of the screen. It doesn’t look healthy, all glitchy and pixelated, and Peter watches as Flash works furiously through a wall of code to fix the crashing mistake. It only seems to make it worse. 

“Thanks.” He murmurs to Quentin as he turns to the lab table. A little away from the other interns is a StarkPad, one of the most innovative pieces of tech Peter’s ever seen. He’s never been able to see one in real life, let alone be able to touch one himself. The shock must show in his face, because Quentin chuckles from above him and passes it over. 

“Take your time, kid.” He says, chewing gently on the end of his own as he looks back down at a stack of papers labelled _Binary Augmented Retro Framing_. “You can stay a bit longer and I’ll catch you up.” 

Peter looks at him a bit longer, too grateful to speak, his eyes fixed on the way the right side of Quentin’s lip is stuck between his teeth. He takes a shaky breath and turns back to the table, struggling to keep his attention solely on the StarkPad in front of him. 

When he switches it on, too in awe to notice anything around him, a series of instructions plays out before his eyes, asking him to fix the code to a simple interactive CGI slideshow. He looks over at the other interns, all insanely clever and working quick, and looks back to his watch. Without the overtime, he’s got fifteen minutes to finish what they’d have half an hour to do. He can do that. 

He kinda can, actually, really well, as he figures out. The code is simple, the kind of code he practiced on at home with May when he was bored of doing chemistry homework. There are a few mistakes here and there, but as the other interns trickle out of the door one by one to gather in the break room, Peter’s very nearly done. 

“How you getting on, Parker?” 

Peter jumps a little at Quentin’s voice, completely lost in his work. 

“Almost done, sir.” He says as Quentin takes a seat across the rectangle table, his eyes watching Peter carefully. It makes him shift in his seat a little, and he’s grateful he’s almost done, because he doesn’t know how he’d be able to cope with working through code with one of the hottest men he’s ever seen sitting right across from him, their knees almost brushing. 

He plays out the scenario on the hologram, a simple act of passing a man a cup of coffee as he walks past the sofa. Peter almost snorts at the innuendo when he looks down at the SI shirt he’s still wearing.

“So what was wrong with it?” Quentin asks, no boredom in his voice. He leans forward a little as Peter speaks, genuine curiosity in his eyes. 

“A few minor errors along the code line, so I exchanged them into simple binary and recoded them to fit. This,” he says, and points to where the screen’s frozen on the cup of coffee. “Was unmoving. I added a thread of code in between the movement and the facial expression to make it 3D. And there was a little glitch at the end when the character waves his hand. All fixed.” 

When Peter finishes, he realises why Quentin’s been so quiet. 

He’s staring at Peter like he’s the most interesting thing in the world, his brain looking like it’s moving a hundred miles an hour. Peter knows that the code is simple for someone like Quentin Beck, but he looks entranced nonetheless. 

“Nobody else caught that glitch at the end. Purposeful.” He says with a wink that makes Peter’s stomach flip. “You used your initiative to fix something that most people wouldn’t even think to spot. I’m impressed.” 

Curse the blood that runs through Peter’s veins, for it seems to all run from his body straight to his cheeks.

“Thank you.” He says, a little breathless at the praise.   
  
Quentin takes a look at the time, sighing lowly under his breath. He looks back at Peter from the side, through his eyelashes so the younger man has to stop himself giggling like a teenage girl.

“How old are you, Peter?”   
  
“Twenty, sir.” Peter responds, even though it says it right at the top of his staff file. Quentin nods thoughtfully and runs a hand through his hair, somehow managing to keep its perfectly dishevelled look that he pulls off so well. 

“You’ll be out of here in no time.” He says, and then adds quickly, at Peter’s slightly horrified look: “And into a job. Of course.”

“I know you like the engineering side, the practicality.” Quentin continues, leading Peter to the door. “Wherever you want to go, whatever you want to do, you’ll do it.” 

He stops, smiling down at him in a way Peter hasn’t seen before. His hand is leaning on the door, eyes open and friendly, and Peter wants to melt forward into his chest. 

“But I hope you stay here.”  
  
And then he’s gone. 

*

By the end of the day, Peter’s too exhausted to even keep his eyes open as he leaves. He’s already dumped his folder in this new locker, a couple floors up from where Quentin and the other colleagues keep their stuff, up with the kitchen and the crisis staff. Peter doesn’t mind though - it gives him the opportunity to slow walk up two flights of stairs and back again so none of his newfound peers watch him have to take the subway home. 

Peter’s not embarrassed of the fact that he can’t drive, per say, it’s just... Well, okay, he is. And he hates it, because there’s nothing he can do about it and he barely make enough money to cover the bills as it is and he’s so lucky he’s where he is right now because of that scholarship to MIT because without it, where would he be? 

Peter doesn’t want to imagine it. He got the scholarship about three weeks after Uncle Ben’s death, the morning after he’d cut his arms to shreds. 

He shivers. And not just because of the early December chill in the air. 

“Peter!” A voice calls as he’s rounding the street to begin the twenty minute walk to the station. If he keeps up this quick pace, he’ll be home before the hour. 

He turns, heart skipping a beat because, shit, he’s shivering through his sweater and his shoes are getting wet and he watches a sleek black car stop right in front of him, with his boss at the steering wheel. 

“You walking home?” Quentin shouts over the New York noise, one hand still on the steering wheel. Peter instinctively draws closer, bending down a little to the car window. 

“I get the subway.” He says, leaving out the fact that he has no other choice. 

“Get in.” Quentin says without thinking it over, his face friendly and open. “Unless it’s one of your hobbies to walk home in the freezing cold while it’s snowing.” 

Peter starts at that, his eyes flicking up to the sky. Huh. He’d been so focused on the glint in Quentin’s blue eyes that he hadn’t even noticed the cold dropping in snowflakes around him. 

“Get in,” Quentin says again. “I can use the car share lane then.” 

Peter smiles at that and nods, laughing at how giddy this whole day has been. By the time he’s sat in the car, his body is practically vibrating with excitement despite the warmth of the car. 

“Woah,” Quentin says under his breath, his eyes focused on Peter’s shaking hands. “You are cold.” 

Peter watches wordlessly as Quentin takes his small, shivering hands in his own much larger ones, and wraps his fingers tight near the base of his wrists to create a friction warmth. The touch only makes the pit in Peter’s stomach grow, the excitement making his whole body, from his neck to his toes, feel hollow. He looks at Quentin when the older man looks back up, and feels ready to throw himself into oncoming traffic. 

Because, what the fuck? Quentin’s his boss, and which universe would give Peter king-of-falling-in-love-with-people-at-first-glance Parker the opportunity to sit in the same car with the most ridiculously handsome man Peter’s ever seen on the face of planet earth. 

Literally.

“You should invest in some gloves. And probably another shirt.” 

Peter swallows, nodding slowly, because if he speaks he might vomit. 

“You got an address?” Quentin says, dropping Peter’s hands gently. He quickly covers them in his sweater, still shaking from the simplest touch known the mankind. 

Peter’s lived twenty years, and he doesn’t think anyone’s ever touched him past a platonic hug. Except for maybe that one guy who slapped his ass at a festival, but that’s beside the point. He’s heard a lot about touch starvation, but he didn’t know it would feel this good when it was released. 

“Earth to Parker.” Quentin says, not unkindly. He’s smiling, one hand still on the wheel, patiently waiting with his phone for Peter to tap his address into. 

“Oh, shit, sorry.” Peter says, hurriedly typing his address into the GPS. He hadn’t even remembered why he’d been in the car in the first place. “Long day.” 

Quentin nods with a laugh, pulling out of the lay-by when the traffic makes a gap. Peter cringes at the intensity of it, the sea of cars that stretches right to the slowest moving traffic lights he’s ever seen. 

“I can imagine. My first day, I dropped an early version of the StarkPad and accidentally stepped on it. You like the Beatles?” 

Peter snorts softly, his body finding its way relaxing into the seat. It looks expensive, but smells homely, that familiar cinnamon scent Peter’s quickly growing to adore. 

“And I thought spilling coffee down myself was bad.” He and Quentin both make a noise of amusement, Peter at his own clumsiness, and Quentin at... he doesn’t know exactly what Quentin’s laughing at. He hopes he’s laughing with him, and not at him. “Yeah. My uncle loved them.” 

“Your uncle has good taste.” Quentin says with a smile, opening his phone as they stop again. 

“Yeah. He was amazing.” 

Quentin starts a song that Peter recognises, but before he can sink into the lull of familiarity, the older man asks the question he should’ve known was coming. 

“Was?” 

“He died when I was thirteen.” Peter says after a pause, his eyes focussed on the quickly turning heavy snowfall. “Stabbing.” 

“Oh, Peter.” Quentin says, his voice truly sorrowful. He looks conflicted for a minute before patting a hand down on Peter’s knee a couple times. He holds it there for a moment before letting go, leaving an invisible heavy hand print behind. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” Peter says quickly, having grown used to the apologies for seven years. “Not your fault.” 

Quentin only hums and Peter finds himself gratefully relishing in the fact that he doesn’t have to explain himself anymore. He doesn’t cry every night like he used to, but it doesn’t make it any less painful in the heart whenever Ben’s name is mentioned. 

The traffic gradually filters out and before Peter has time to make sense of what’s happening, it’s twenty to the hour and Quentin’s parked across the street to Peter’s apartment.

He takes a breath, too ecstatic to be embarrassed about the looming building he holds one room in. By the looks of Quentin’s car, and his suit, and his phone, he’s not used to these ends of Queens. 

“I’ll need the shirt back. Stark’s minions watch over staff uniform like hawks. They’d notice if I suddenly only had one.” 

And why does the thought of Quentin wearing this shirt after Peter make his heart jump in his throat? 

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” 

Peter’s too busy lost in the haze of Quentin’s eyes on him because his fingers find their way towards his sweater and he’s about to pull it up and over his head along with the shirt when Quentin stops him with an outstretched hand. 

“Woah,” he laughs, fingers clasping gently around Peter’s wrists. “You can bring it tomorrow.” 

“Oh.” Peter says dumbly, too embarrassed to speak. “Sorry. Dumb.” 

Quentin smiles softly and tells him there’s nothing to apologise for. His hair is a little pushed back from too many times his hands have run through it over the course of the day, but he still looks more breathtakingly handsome every time Peter looks at him. 

“I hope you don’t think this is me favouring you. I still expect you to keep up with the work.” He says with a wink. “Just your regular friendly colleague.” 

Peter’s never been good at hiding his emotions, and he can _feel_ his face droop a little. He picks it up quickly, forcing a smile because, Quentin’s his _boss_. He gave him his shirt and a lift home, that doesn’t automatically mean he’s gonna lift Peter out of his seat and fuck him on his lap right in front of his apartment. 

He can feel the burning in his cheeks, so he hurriedly thanks Quentin more than once and quickly opens the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Quentin’s lips turn up in a sort of knowing smile, like a reassurance to himself. 

It’s been a long day. He’s probably imagining it. 

He waves to Quentin as the older man pulls out of the street, letting Peter cross the road to his apartment. The little tabby cat that strays around the neighbourhood is waiting for him at the door, curled into a makeshift bed one of Peter’s neighbours made. He smiles down at her as he passes, stopping only to scratch her behind the ears. 

It’s only when he gets into the apartment, behind the safety of his front door, that it hits him, and he almost ricochets straight to the toilet to vomit. 

He almost stripped for his new boss. 

And, _god_ , fuck him, because given the chance? He’d do it again. 


	2. diet mountain dew

The first section of the internship, the CGI and holographic department, sets them up for everything possible to branch out into, and lasts for three weeks. 

In those few weeks, Peter’s gotten to know his fellow interns. There’s Betty, who wants to use her skills in creative technology to solve cold cases and murders. There’s his new, quickly-becoming-best friend, Ned, who’s a natural born hacker if Peter’s ever seen one. They met when Peter had forgotten his money and couldn’t afford a breakfast bar that cost a dollar. Ned hacked into the vending machine and gave him a sandwich, a packet of crisps and a drink, all without being asked. Peter could’ve kissed him. 

Peter’s a natural at holographic CGI, but his heart lies in engineering. He enjoys the reality of fixing things, of starting a project and being able to touch and feel it when it’s finished. It’s been his dream since he was tiny, and not even Quentin Beck can keep him in this section of SI. As much as he enjoys fawning over his boss, it makes him feel little in comparison, like he’s doing something he shouldn’t be doing. He’s twenty now, and Quentin can’t be older than thirty five.

So, anyway, he’s happy to be working somewhere he won’t be distracted by the way his boss’s shirt stretches across his biceps as he leans back in his chair. Really, he is. 

“Peter.” Quentin says, breaking Peter from his daydream. He looks up, feeling his cheeks burn as the rest of the interns turn to look at him. “See me after?” 

That same pit that he got in social situations ever since he was eight and his teacher called him to the front of the class to present his volcanic eruption project settles in his stomach. He’d tried his absolute hardest on the end of section report, a seven hundred word essay on whether CGI is more favourable in a given situation than real life. He hadn’t tried so hard on a piece of writing since his grade eleven English piece. 

“Shit...what’d you do?” Ned says, voice full of concern. He’s the only person Peter’s ever really been able to consider a friend, since his time at MIT was spent being tortured by Flash and not much else. 

Peter just shrugs and starts to worry about his lip, chewing on the scarred skin inside his cheek. He’d done everything right, hadn’t he?

He spends the next remaining twenty minutes thinking right back to his and Quentin’s first encounter, almost three weeks ago now. Everything had seemed fine, if a little more than fine, but after that, it had just gone back to a regular workplace. 

He sometimes caught Quentin looking at him, but he assumed it was due to the hidden flaws he kept finding, and the weird tapping of his pencil he couldn’t stop. He’d run into him a few times, but Ned gave him a lift most days, so there was no need for them to spend time in the car together. 

So, nothing out of the ordinary that Peter could remember. There was no way Quentin could have read his mind when he dazed off in easy projects and dreamt about his boss bending him over the desk and fucking him until he couldn’t breathe. 

Right? 

He knows mind reading abilities aren’t justified by science. So why is Quentin looking at him like he can read right through his brain? 

At exactly ten minutes to five, Quentin lets them go. Peter watches as the rest of the interns leave the lab, all chattering about what they’re doing over the week they get off for Christmas, whether they’ll see each other around or if they’ll be working together. Peter likens it to high school and smiles to himself, knowing that a group of nerds in Stark Industries is like toddlers in a play pit. 

Ned hangs around a little longer, looking awkwardly between Quentin and Peter. Quentin looks up from his paperwork, stacking it behind a green folder, and smiles closed lipped at Ned. 

“You’re allowed for leave, Ned. This isn’t high school.” 

Ned nods, grabbing his folder and pen from the lab table. He drops the pen, the clatter loud in the almost empty lab room, and hurries out of the door with an apologetic look sent Peter’s way. 

And then they’re alone. 

“You wanted to see me?” 

“I did.” Quentin says without missing a beat, eyes flickering around Peter’s face. “About your essay.” 

Peter nods, mind running a hundred miles an hour as he sits back down next to Quentin, who rests his clasped hands on the table. 

There’s no ring on his finger. No shiny metal band around those fingers he swears are thicker than two of his own put together, his hands so large that Peter has to shuffle and swallow down the lump in his throat.

“This isn’t high school. The essay’s only for showing you understand the work before you can progress in the internship programme. You didn’t necessarily have to add the title and Harvard generated references.” 

He chuckles, but Peter can’t keep the burning shame from his cheeks. Maybe he’d wanted to try so hard in this, being a year older than the rest of the interns, that he tried _too_ hard and fucked up. 

He’s always been emotional, a crybaby in middle school, but even as familiar tears prick at his eyes, he can’t bring himself to speak. 

“I’m really impressed with you, Peter.” Quentin says, and Peter realises with a start that he’s missed half their conversation. “Your work is outstanding, the flaws you see are flaws even _I_ don’t recognise at first glance. You have an incredible mind.” 

The burning in his cheeks is for another reason now. The praise goes straight to his stomach, pooling uncomfortably near his hipbones until he feels like he’s going to explode in happiness. If this internship failed, he’d have nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

“Which is why,” Quentin continues, his lips pressed together. “I want to offer you one last time a guaranteed spot in the CGI department. Starting rate of fifteen dollars an hour, your own lab and personal projects. No favouritism.” 

“Mr. Beck, I-” Peter starts, guilt flooding his insides like soap. It leaves a dirty taste in his mouth when he sees Quentin shake his head.

“But, I know your heart lies with engineering.” He sighs. “Just think it over.” 

Peter nods, biting on his lip, that familiar anxiety of disappointment rising in his chest. He looks at Quentin worriedly, who seems more interested in the bottom lip stuck between Peter’s teeth than his worrying. 

“Mr. Beck, huh? That’s new. Makes me feel old.” 

Peter starts to apologise, but Quentin breaks off in a laugh, gathering his coat and bag from the chair beside him. He looks so much bigger from here, where Peter’s sat on a stool and he’s hovering above him. It probably shouldn’t make Peter’s head spin the way it does. 

“It’s alright. Only you, though.” 

Peter’s breath gets caught in his throat, his eyes barely blinking as he watches Quentin’s eyes lock on his. It’s weird, the way his blue eyes seem to know everything about you all at once, like he knows every inch of Peter’s body and thoughts better than he does himself. 

“Quentin, I-”

“Do you like cinnamon rolls?” Quentin interrupts him, his throat moving hard. His jaw is a little clenched, the same way Peter thinks his must be. 

Except Peter’s frustration comes from the fact that Quentin hasn’t pushed him against a wall and made out with him till his lips were bruised yet. He’s not sure where Quentin’s comes from. 

At his silence, Quentin continues, “I know this place a couple blocks from here. Makes the best cinnamon rolls I know of. You wanna come?” 

Peter nods, and then stops, his face shadowing. 

“Oh, I can’t. I’ll have to wait hours for a train.” He says, mournful. 

“I’ll drive you.” Quentin says, motioning with his head for Peter to follow. “C’mon, or we might get snowed in.” 

He says it with a laugh, but Peter’s too busy pushing the fantasies of him and Quentin being trapped, alone, for hours with nothing to do. He almost wishes for the sky to suddenly drop three inches of snow on the ground. 

“Okay.” Peter says, grabbing his own coat (the one without the paint splatters, thank god). As they leave, he tries to ignore the feeling of Quentin’s eyes burning into his back.

It doesn’t work very well. 

*

The coffee shop, a small, homely place smelling of cinnamon and winter spice, is completely the opposite to what Peter thought Quentin had in mind. 

Quentin’s an expensive man, see - his suits looks like they’d cost Peter an arm and a leg, his car is always clean and new smelling, and his whole aura just screams _rich!_

But this place, it’s tiny. Quentin greets the waitress, an older lady with warm eyes and a flour splattered apron, on a first name basis, and leads them to a small booth right in the corner. 

It’s against a window, so Peter looks out at the street as they sit, his heart fluttering. It’s little things like these, the warmth of the shop, the closeness of Quentin’s knees to his own, the beauty of the snowflakes falling in New York at this time. It’s about a week till Christmas and everywhere is bustling with music and smells and decorations; it’s Peter’s favourite time of the year. 

“This is beautiful.” He says, eyes meeting Quentin’s. They soften as Peter smiles at him, his hands gentle on the table like they’ve got all the time in the world. 

“Isn’t it?” The older man says, looking above them at a small piece of mistletoe dangling above the middle of the table. He laughs lightly, a sound that makes Peter’s heart flip all over again. “My mother brought me here when I was maybe eight? And we came here every Sunday for seven years.” 

Peter breathes out, looking around at the nearly empty shop around them. He’s not sure if it’s his place to ask, but he’s tired and they’re alone and Quentin looks so open and beautiful that he can’t stop himself. 

“Why did you stop?” He says, watching Quentin’s face fall a little. 

“She had cancer. I was probably only fifteen when she died.”

“Oh.” Peter swallows, the air between them thick. He wants to reach out and touch Quentin’s hand, to exclaim his sorrow without feeble words. “Did you have anyone?” 

Quentin shakes his head. “No. I was in a couple foster homes before they let me run away. Came straight from Long Island and never went back. Except a couple weeks ago.” 

“When I started my internship?” 

“It’s where she’s buried. I haven’t seen it for almost twenty years.” 

Peter bites his lip, not even thinking before leaning across the table and placing his hand on top of Quentin’s. His breath is shaking, tears pooling in his eyes as he tries to blink them away. 

“I know it’s not worth much,” he starts, giving Quentin a half smile. “But I’m really sorry.” 

The older man doesn’t say anything else, but he places his other hand on top of Peter’s, keeping their fingers pressed together in something so intimately sorrowful that the breath is almost knocked straight from his lungs. 

Because when Peter’s parents died, he was only three. Any grief he felt was swallowed by his aunt and uncle’s warm hugs and homely invitations. When his uncle died, he had May, and she forked out every bit of money from her savings to get him into a therapist. She didn’t end up helping too much, but it was enough to make him feel like all the love hadn’t been sucked straight from his world in a matter of years. 

And when Peter looks at Quentin, he sees the life Peter missed out on in his surprisingly good luck.

The waitress taking their order manages to spring in at just the right time because any longer and Peter wouldn’t have been able to stop himself leaning across and hugging the man he’s only known three weeks who might be responsible for his access into the engineering section of Stark Industries. 

But if the way Quentin’s looking at him is any credit, it wouldn’t ruin Peter’s chances in the slightest. 

“Can I get you guys anything or are you just hiding from the snow?” 

Quentin laughs under his breath, leaning back into his seat and leaving Peter with a barely audible _oh_. 

He didn’t know that it would feel this lonely after Quentin stopped touching him, how his skin would burn with the phantom touch of a larger hand enveloping his own. Peter watches Quentin speak, watches the way his lips move, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the way his throat moves as he swallows and thinks, 

_Fuck_.   
  
*

“So then I just turn around, this vial literally bubbling over, and just say; ‘I think I did something wrong’.” 

Peter laughs, biting down on his lip when he thinks about how _embarrassing_ it must have been. 

“Why did you not put it down?” He half-asks, too busy laughing as Quentin chokes around the coffee he’s currently sipping on. He leans backward into the booth, both arms cradling his stomach, his legs far enough out that they’re touching Quentin’s. The touch doesn’t make his face light on fire anymore, which he supposes is _definitely_ a good thing.

“I can’t believe it’s almost eight already.” Peter says, letting out all the breath in his lungs in one big huff. 

The coffee shop never got busier, the two of them practically having the whole place to themselves for the three hours it took to down two coffees, a hot chocolate and a couple cinnamon buns.

Quentin was right - they really _were_ the best Peter had ever tasted. He’s sure that had they tasted like cardboard, though, he’d have eaten them until he burst just to see the way Quentin’s face lit up afterward.

“Closing up soon, boys!” The owner shouts, the older woman Peter had thought was a waitress earlier. She owns the shop with her grandchildren, as she’d told them on her twenty minute break that she chose to spend with them. She told him how Quentin had been coming here for as long as she could remember, almost always ordering the same thing; the cinnamon bun.

Peter looks at Quentin at that, at the look in his eyes that has only grown softer over the course of the evening. From glaring at Flash to concentrating on paperwork, the stress lines in his face are being eased out as they speak, a sight Peter’s growing to love a little too quickly.

“Where you heading?” Quentin says, in a way that makes Peter think he’s got plans tonight. 

Because, Peter had told him he was going home, had exclaimed in the car that he would spend his Friday nights catching up on paperwork and bills and maybe getting a chance to eat a home cooked meal if he pushed it hard enough. He _knows_ Peter’s going nowhere after this.

“Where are _you_ heading?” Peter says instead, leaning forward on his hand. Okay, so maybe the coffee shop sold liquor on Fridays and Saturdays too. Didn’t mean he’d had a lot.

Except, well, maybe just enough.

Quentin smiles, copying Peter in his stance, their faces closer than ever before as they smile at each other and try to ignore the sound of shutters on the windows around them.

“It’s been a while since I saw the Christmas lights around Queens. Was going for a walk. Does that make me a loser?”

Peter laughs, pretending to think it over for a minute before declaring that Quentin was, in fact, a loser, but could join the club and bring it to a grand total of two members.

“Haven’t you had a drink?”

Quentin smiles at that, eyes flicking to Peter’s lips for a moment before finding their way back to his eyes, searching constantly like he’s trying to get as deep as possible.

“Not as much as you, baby.”

And Peter’s breathing stops.

If he could choose a time in life to die, it would be now. He’d replay Quentin calling him _baby_ over and over and over again until it was engraved in his mind, nestle the phrase between the unforgettable scent of cinnamon and the feeling of Quentin’s hands atop his own. He’d set himself there and be done with the rest, happy and content in whatever life he leads afterward.

“Can I come?” He breathes, eyes unable to focus anywhere but on Quentin’s face. He looks darker, his hair dishevelled and his stubble a little longer, but his lips are full and his eyes are warm and he just looks so handsome that Peter wants to drop dead right now and forget the rest of his life.

“I was counting on it.” 

And after that, Peter doesn’t really remember paying for their items and getting to the car. One minute he’s replaying the words _baby_ in his head, relishing in the present that Quentin actually wants to be with him without just seeming nice, and the next, he’s sat in the passenger seat of the older man’s car, shivering as the air warms rapidly around them.

“I’m guessing you don’t drive much.” Quentin says, no malice in his voice. “Or do you just enjoy the subway?”

“I can’t afford it.” Peter says eventually, picking at the skin around one of his nails. “Lessons, you know? And then I’d have to buy a car. And the insurance.”

Quentin nods, a little solemn, but he doesn’t say anything else. He leans a little over the console, turning the radio on to alleviate the growing silence around them. There’s not much left to talk about besides the sad stuff, and Peter’s not ready to ruin this night.

As they begin driving, Peter takes the time to observe Quentin when he’s not looking at him, the way his eyes flick around the road, occasionally landing on Peter in a side glance that makes his stomach flip. He watches the way his thumb gently rubs the top of the gear stick, something Peter never could have guessed would be so insanely attractive.

And then he thinks, _oh shit_. 

Because he’s not just watching the way Quentin licks his lips, or the way he reclines in his seat when they’re on a long stretch of road. He’s watching the way the older man starts to hum along to some old songs Peter doesn’t know, watching him rub his eyes with a yawn and realising that they’ve been out for a long time and while Peter was exhausted coming out of SI, he’s never been more awake than right now.

He swallows and turns to the road, the snow still falling at a steady pace. The roads are clearing, Christmas lights strung on the outside of apartments, decorating fences as they turn into a little homely street connecting two roads. Everything is so quiet, so peaceful.

They’ve been driving for a little while, Quentin occasionally pointing out land marks that Peter wouldn’t have ever known, like the playground where he fell off the swings and broke his nose, or the bookstore he used to work at when he was sixteen. Central Park looms ahead of them, not as busy as Peter would have expected but still holding a few lonely strangers.

Quentin pulls up on the sidewalk, not worrying about a ticket because when it’s Christmas, no one cares what you do.

They sit in the car for a moment, together, silence blanketing everything around them. Peter watches the couples, the homeless men and women, the lonely walking with their shoes scuffing the ground. He realises, with a start, that this whole night hasn’t just been about him and Quentin, but rather the underlying loneliness that suffocates New York of a nighttime.

“It’s so sad.” Peter says simply, and they leave it at that.

The air is cold around them as they step out of the car, Peter hands wrapped around his body almost immediately.

“Hey, wait!” Quentin says, leaning in the backseat of his car.

“Here.” He says, and wraps a dark, warm jacket around Peter’s shoulders. He himself is wearing only a jumper, but he insists on Peter keeping it for himself.

“It’s not as happy as I expected.” Peter says honestly, the lights above illuminating the crying couple sat on a bench across the park. It’s still beautiful, the exterior, and Peter curses his ability to see beneath it, to see the choking sadness the people of New York hold in their hearts.

“It isn’t.” Quentin says, taking a deep breath on his left. He doesn’t say anything else.

He doesn’t really need to, because he takes Peter’s hand and leads him to the centre of the park, down into the trees where only a few lights are flickering dimly. The strangers stay to the sides, and Peter’s guiltily grateful for it.

He leads them to a small bench in between two looming trees. It’s getting darker and darker as they make their way through the forest, the Christmas lights from the buildings around the park fading rapidly. Peter tries to ignore the shaking in his hands, the sick feeling he’s getting in the pit of his stomach. It doesn’t work very well.

“We should probably head back.” He says, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I’ve got, um...” 

The excuse falls flat, because he doesn’t really have anything better to be doing right now. He’s just scared, the darkness enveloping both him and Quentin until he can barely hear anything but his own breathing. It’s suffocating.

“Sorry. I just wanted to - here, look.”

Quentin points over to the bench, slightly covered in snow but the engraving still visible. Peter leans in slightly, squinting his eyes in the dark, and manages to make out the name that he assumes can only be Quentin’s mother.

“Quentin...” He says, the chest pain he always gets when he’s sad spiking him again and again and again. “Why did you bring me here?” 

Because it feels intimate, almost too intimate to share. The bench is obviously not very well known, and therefore hasn’t been looked after, considering the fraying and chipping of the wood.

When he turns back around, Quentin’s staring at him. He’s not crying, but he’s not smiling either. He just looks blank.

“You felt it too.” He says finally, swallowing around a lump in his throat. “You felt the sadness as soon as we got here.” 

He turns at that, leaving Peter with no other choice than to blindly follow him. They’re heading back through the trees, back to the car, and Peter feels a rush of gratitude through his body.

“She’s buried in Long Island, but this was her favourite place.” He answers Peter’s unspoken question. “I never knew why. She said things aren’t always what they seem, but I never knew how to take that.”

Peter stumbles a little in his quiet rush to keep up with Quentin’s long strides.

“Quentin, wait, I-”

He turns quickly and abruptly, causing Peter to bang into his chest. When he looks up, Quentin’s eyes aren’t red rimmed, but they’re calculating, a little dark even in the dim light.

He looks kind of surprised too, because he’s looking at Peter’s lips and then his eyes and then his lips again and then he’s kissing him and it’s such a shock that Peter stumbles backwards, out of his grip and back into the leaves.

“Peter-” He starts, eyebrows almost threaded together like they would when they’re angry. His hands are a little tighter, his jaw set, but Peter doesn’t notice as he closes the gap between them again and throws his arms around Quentin’s neck.

It’s clumsy, like they’re both so exhausted they’re feeding off whatever energy each other has left. Quentin’s hands are in his hair, and then on his waist, and then on his thighs, his lips following their trek downward onto his jaw, his neck, his collarbone.

Peter gasps, eyes squeezed shut because if he tries hard enough, he can almost forget the cold and the wet and the traffic and can try and pretend he and Quentin are in his apartment.

“You have no idea,” Quentin says against his neck, kissing up to that little spot between his neck and his ear that makes Peter gasp and arch his back every time. The older man laughs a little, sucking on that same spot, talking between breaths. “How long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“Saw you at the interview.” He continues, kissing the side of Peter’s mouth. He threads his fingers into Quentin’s hair in response, like a silent plea for them to stay right here right now forever and ever and ever.

When he leans back, a fond smile graces his face as he looks at Peter, who’s still got his eyes closed, still chasing blindly after the older man as he pulls away.

“How about I drop you off at your apartment, huh?”

Peter lets out a little noise, turning his nose up as he finally opens his eyes. Quentin’s looking at him like he’s trying to work something out, his eyes dark but squinted.

“Or we could just go back to mine.” He says, leaning into Peter’s space again. He doesn’t have time to respond before Quentin’s kissing his neck again, like he knows that even with his lips free, he won’t be able to speak. 

“I take that as a yes.” He laughs as Peter tries to pull him impossibly closer, his whole body trembling. When Quentin pulls back again, his hair is a mess from his fingers, and Peter doesn’t look much better himself, with his bitten lips and blown pupils and fresh love bites on his neck.

By the time Quentin’s leading him back to the car, one hand holding protectively onto Peter’s fingers, he’s forgotten all about the bench and everything else that isn’t Quentin.

And he fucking _loves_ it. 


	3. nights in white satin

Quentin’s lips are on his before they’re even in the apartment, Peter’s back against the wall just as the door closes shut behind them. The older man had been holding himself back before, Peter can tell, because he’s just as desperate, just as excited, just as wildly intoxicated as he himself feels.

Peter can’t even see the apartment, he doesn’t even know where they are, because he was too busy trying to contain himself with Quentin’s hand on his thigh the whole drive, occasionally shifting upwards towards his crotch. He’d thrown his head back, all breathy and gone, and had thanked the Gods that the roads were clear, because Quentin was too busy circling his inner thigh to pay proper attention to the road.

“This is your apartment.” Peter says, but Quentin doesn’t answer. He guesses time to talk will come in the morning.

Quentin’s hands are like fire, burning the skin underneath them as they roam Peter’s body. They never touch the same place twice, leaving his whole body tingling when he finally steps back.

Peter’s still against the wall, his head thrown back and off to the side, his shirt rumpled and half undone. His lips, once soft with vaseline all those minutes ago in the park, are bitten and swollen, parted as he yearns back to Quentin’s touch.

“You’re so pretty.” He mumbles, pulling at Peter’s shirt beneath him. “How are you so pretty?”

Peter doesn’t answer because he’s too busy trying not to choke on the compliment, too busy pulling his shirt over his head because, god, he needs Quentin _now_.

“Anyone ever told you you’re so pretty?” He hums, the words vibrating on that sweet spot near his ear. Peter’s legs crumple and Quentin wraps his hands around the younger man’s thighs, hoisting him up against the wall.

“Never.” Peter replies, his feet dangling around down Quentin’s thighs. “Never done anything, ugh, like this.”

Quentin pulls back, his face clear as he reads the signs.

“Wait, never? Like...?”

“Yeah.” Peter replies, too busy burning with every fibre of his being to notice Quentin being serious. “What’re your sheets made of?”

At that, Quentin’s face softens into a laugh, his eyes pretty and gleaming. He presses a kiss to Peter’s lips once, twice, and then starts moving clumsily toward the bedroom.

“White satin.” He says as they reach the bed. He gently lets Peter down in the middle, stepping back only to admire the way his pale, porcelain skin looks against the bed sheets. “Pretty sheets for a pretty boy.”

Peter shakes his head, hiding the shame behind his hands. He lays down on the bed dramatically, slightly too long brown curls fanning around his head.

“Hey,” Quentin murmurs, crawling over the top of him. “Don’t hide your pretty face.”

Peter peeks out beneath his fingers, his breath hitching as Quentin hovers above.

His hair is all tousled, his bottom lip bitten between his teeth as his eyes roam everywhere, with nothing of Peter’s body left unseen. His hands, pressed on each side of Peter’s face, are large and strong, his right thumb gently stroking his cheek.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He mumbles, lips brushing Peter’s ear. He finally lets his hands drop to the bed, breathing deep as Quentin sucks on the lobe of his ear, mouthing at the skin beneath it. “I’m happy staring at your face for as long as I live.”

Peter giggles at that, the seriousness of Quentin’s face melting away at the sound. He feels a wave of relief rush over him. He’s not sure he’s ready to take the final step, but _god_ does he want to.

“I just,” he tries, barely able to form words as his brain clouds with lust. “Not all the way. You know? I just want...I don’t know.”

Quentin hums, his fingers trailing Peter’s bare collarbone. Goosebumps spring to the surface of his skin, the room barely below boiling but his skin like ice as Quentin continues.

“I can do things.” He says like he’s explaining something to a child. Peter supposes he is, in a way - inexperienced. “You can tell me to stop. You want that?” 

And the way he says it, Peter’s not sure he could have said no if he tried.

He goes straight to the buckle of Peter’s pants, sliding the belt from around the waistband like it’s second nature without breaking eye contact. Peter throws his head back, the intensity of Quentin’s eyes burning into his own too much to handle.

And Quentin thinks Peter looks absolutely delectable from here, his cheeks flushing as he unbuckles his pants and makes light work of them, discarding them somewhere to be found in the morning. It’s not just Peter’s face that’s pretty, his whole body looks like it’s been carved from marble, his skin so smooth and clear that Quentin runs his hands over it in awe, no bumps beneath his fingertips.

“Who made you, pretty boy?” He says under his breath, kissing Peter again and again until the younger man is squirming underneath him.

“Quentin.” He all but moans, and Quentin jolts. He hadn’t expected his name in Peter’s mouth to sound so...heavenly.

Peter stops speaking then, stops doing anything really other than squirming and fisting his hands into the sheets, bucking his hips to Quentin’s in a clumsy, inexperienced way that somehow feels so much better than he’s ever had before.

He finds himself chasing those noises, the little broken moans, the hitching in his breath. But more than anything, he wants Peter to moan his name like he did before, wants to take him from the tiny little breaths he’s producing now to letting him scream underneath him because right now? It’s all about him.

In fact, Quentin’s not sure he’ll ever need porn again, because the work of art underneath him will be burned into his memory for as long as he lives.

“Peter,” he says against his stomach, lips moving to brush along the little dip between his hip bone and his thigh. Peter jolts away from him, so sensitive it almost hurts. “You’re something else.”

He places a hand over Peter’s crotch then, kissing his inner right thigh as he does. The smaller man arches forward into Quentin’s hand with a shaky mom, legs trembling off the bed.

“Quentin.” He says and, oh, there it is.

Quentin growls, the vibrations travelling straight through Peter’s skin to the pit in his stomach. He threads his hand through Quentin’s tousled hair, down to his shoulders, hands ghosting over the material.

Quentin’s still fully dressed, leaning over Peter like he’s a million times taller, and Quentin has to lean back a little to fully appreciate how hot it is.

While Peter squirms under his hand, trying to find any friction he can, Quentin’s still calm, fully dressed like he’ll walk straight out of here and get a scotch while Peter lays handcuffed to the bed, pretty body aching against the satin of his bedsheets.

Peter groans loudly this time, his hands strewn above his head, absolutely refusing to touch himself no matter how silent Quentin has stayed.

There’s always next time.

“Quentin, I-” he breaks off, shuddering through breaths. “Please.”

He’s not even quite sure what he’s begging for, not even sure this is real, even, but Quentin understands. He kisses Peter once more, sucking on his bottom lip until tears spring to his eyes because oh _god_ it’s too much.

“Don’t worry, baby.” Quentin says, lips travelling back to Peter’s thighs. “I got you.”

*

“How much is rent?”

“About sixty a week.” Peter replies, yawning. “Does the job.”

Quentin only hums, fingertips tracing Peter’s arm, because he wouldn’t really know. He’d been born into wealth, going from a large family home to a spacious apartment. His mother’s death grant had helped, he supposed, because he’d never have to worry about when his next meal would be, like Peter and his aunt did.

Quentin sighs. This is giving him a headache.

He leans over to the bedside table as Peter keeps rambling, fingering blindly for his bottle of pills. It’s almost nine in the morning, after they’d been busy for almost four hours the night before, and they’re both still exhausted. He assumes Peter’s rambling is calming him down.

He’d been fine, of course, just not really sure of his body’s limits, and that was okay. Quentin took it slow, stopping when he thought it correct, not when Peter told him; he was a little wild thing, not even sure if his body could take the sheer pleasure but absolutely desperate to try. Quentin smiles fondly and pulls back, his arm untangling from beneath Peter’s waist.

“What are those?” He says lazily, one hand thrown above his head as the sunlight makes its way into the room. It’s still snowing outside, though Quentin hasn’t moved yet to see if it stuck all night.

“Prescription pills.” He says, and it’s not a complete lie.

They were prescription pills. He’d gotten them about a month ago due to severe migraines. The migraines had stopped, but he’d assumed it was because of the pills, so he kept using them. Even when he didn’t really need them.

Peter hums, stretching like a lithe cat against the bedsheets. They’re crumpled around his waist, his pretty skin littered in love bites; he almost looks prettier than before like this, Quentin concludes.

“I should probably get home.” He says, sliding up till he’s sitting against the pillows. Quentin offers him a mint from the bedside table and he takes it, grinning.

“What’s the rush?” Quentin murmurs, leaning in to nuzzle his nose against Peter’s neck. The younger man laughs, pushing away with no real effort as Quentin starts to mouth at the skin, breathing over already there bruises.

Peter shudders, the skin so sensitive that he squirms away. He’s sure some of the bruises will be permanent after the time Quentin had took enduring each were given attention over the course of what must have been over three hours.

He blushes at the thought, pulling a discarded pair of Quentin’s sweatpants on as he swings his legs out of the bed. They fall on his hipbones, and Quentin whistles as he makes his way over to the window.

It had been snowing the night before, he knows, but the sight that greets him when he opens the curtains is...insane.

Snow coats almost every surface, two feet deep in some places at the least. The street’s got that calm about it that it does every time it snows, but Peter can’t relish in it because he’s not at home and he’s so far that walking would take him at least half the day.

“Um, Quentin?” He says, looking left and right. There’s no grit on the roads yet, and no cars have braved the snow on this small street. There’s no way they’re getting out of this one in a car.

“Yes, honey?” Quentin says, his eyes closed when Peter turns to him. He’d told him he had a thing for nicknames, and a few of his favourites had been present throughout the night.

“I don’t think I can get home.”

Quentin frowns, sitting up in the bed. Peter grabs his phone from his coat pocket, taking a picture of the street before climbing back into bed to show Quentin how bad it is. He sits back on his heels, watching Quentin’s eyes widen a little.

“How am I going to get home now?”

“I guess you’ll just have to sled.” He says with a straight face. 

“Quentin, I’m being serious!” Peter grumbles, pushing at the older man’s hand as he reaches out to him, laughing lightly.

“I’m being serious too, baby.” He says, pulling at Peter’s hands to get him to lay back down. “We can worry about it later.” 

As Peter falls back into his arms, his back against Quentin’s chest, a warmth spreads through him as the older man kisses the top of his head. It feels warm, homely, like he was made just to fit here, on a cold Saturday morning, spent and exhausted, wedged between Quentin’s thighs with nowhere else he’d rather be.

“Oh, fuck.” Quentin curses, the hand that had been drawing last circles on Peter’s arm ceasing. “Fucking stupid thing.”

“What is?” Peter says, craning his neck to see the phone. It’s already switched off, but Quentin’s pissed off face is solidly implanted now.

“One of the guys from work found a flaw in the Binary Augmented Retro Framing system. It’s supposed to be live New Years Eve. Fuck.”

Peter leans forward so Quentin can get up, watching him pull on sweatpants, already angrier than before, his pacing doing little to ease the anxiety in the room.

He fists his hands into his hair, pulling slightly, almost forgetting about the pretty boy sitting in his bed, watching his every move. He clenches his jaw together, trying to stop the anger seeping from his body.

“I can help you.” Peter offers, ever the friendly one. “You said I was doing well in the internship. Besides, I’m not going anywhere.”

Quentin turns at that, the anger still present but dimming with every glimmer of Peter’s soft doe eyes. It’s a good idea, getting Peter to help; they’ve nothing more to do than lay in bed and work, and besides, he really _had_ been doing well.

Quentin grins, striding back over to the bed where he climbs on top of Peter’s body, pushing his shoulders gently back to the pillow so he’s lying down. He looks shocked, his face minutely terrified for a split second, and Quentin finds himself enjoying it more than he should.

He mouths at Peter’s jawline, listening to those breathy moans like it’s the last thing he’ll ever hear. He smells like sweat and honey.

“Quentin I, ah-” He says, cutting off with a hitch as Quentin sucks on one of the bruises on his neck. He pushes at his head with his small hands, skin tingling with over sensitivity. “I can’t - not again.”

“You’d be the best work partner.” He says, ignoring Peter entirely. “I’d love to see how long it would take my colleagues to realise I’m fucking an intern on my couch in their Zoom meeting.”

Peter breathes out shakily, hands following as Quentin moves his lips downward. He’s on his chest, mouthing at his stomach, before he finally looks back up.

“You’re okay.” He says, pressing a kiss to his stomach. “If it’s too much, just say.”

“Quentin, I-” Peter starts, cut off when Quentin leans up and kisses him, hot and feverish. His tongue licks at Peter’s bottom lip, biting down on it until he’s holding it between his teeth.

“I know you’re sensitive, baby.” He says, face so close that when he speaks, his lips move against Peter’s own. “Just try for me.”

He leans back with a dark expression, his hands holding Peter’s to the bed. There’s no real effort in it, but his skin burns with overstimulation. When Quentin ghosts his fingers over that spot between his crotch and his thigh, though, he can’t say anything but his name.

It works that way. Really.


	4. tell me how you want me

New Years Eve comes around quickly, and Peter finds himself stood in front of the mirror on the wall of his bedroom, the floor littered with clothes because he has absolutely no idea what you wear to the launch of one of the biggest scientific projects in almost a decade.

Quentin had invited him under the nonchalance of inviting every other intern too because even though he wasn’t his boss, he was technically still of a higher authority.

“Just give it a month.” He’d promised, smiling over the top of a pending Zoom call to every intern other than Peter. “I promise.”

Peter doesn’t remember much of the call, other than hearing his fellow interns, his friends, even, speak as Quentin told them in a calm manner that they were invited to a massive launch party that Tony Stark himself very well might attend. Never mind the fact that Peter had been between his legs, just out of sight of the computer, while Quentin’s hands brought him closer and closer to the edge and then let him go instantly. If Peter had spoken, or even moved a few inches upwards, the other interns would have seen the whole thing.

The thought makes him swallow, the anxiety in his chest rising again. He still couldn’t figure out whether it had been the hottest thing he’d ever done or the most anxiety inducing. Thinking of Quentin’s large hand on his mouth, inches from covering his nose, though, he finds himself leaning towards the former.

He’d spoken to Aunt May, who’d given him a couple of Ben’s old shirts. They didn’t fit very well, but they were better than some of the outrageous things he owned.

He sighs loudly, picking up a slightly too large black shirt. There’s a small white tie hanging on his closet - that might work.

As he’s pulling the shirt over his head, his phone starts ringing from where it’s lying on the bed. He makes his way over to it, half in the shirt, his head trying to poke out from the neck hole.

“Hello?” He says blindly, barely able to see who’s calling.

“Peter!” It’s Quentin, his voice kind of scratchy. Must be low cell service. “Are you almost ready?” 

At that, Peter pulls the shirt down the rest of the way, pulling down the notification bar to check the time.

“Shit.” It’s ten to seven, and they’re supposed to be there at quarter past. Quentin had offered to drive him, dismissing his worries about people seeing with a “ _It’s minus six degrees outside. I’m not letting you get the subway and walk home. They’ll understand._ ”

Ned, however, seemed to see straight through it when Peter told him. He’d wiggled his eyebrows in that annoying way he’d picked up on, poking at one of the bruises near Peter’s jawline.

Him and MJ would get along like a house on fire.

“Yeah, I’m almost ready, I just need to grab my keys!” He says, rushing to the living room. His phone in one hand, the tie in the other, he grabs a semi smart coat hanging from the back of the armchair, a long black one he only wore for special occasions. This may well be one of the most special occasions of his life.

Grabbing his keys from the dining table, he slides on a random pair of black dress shoes, a pair of Ben’s that he’d gotten lucky with, and rushes to lock the door behind him.

“No rush.” Someone says, and then Peter turns to see Quentin waiting on the stairs, his phone to his ear.

Peter grins and hangs up the call, clumsily tripping on his barely done up shoes as he goes to greet Quentin.

He’s not sure where they are, really, because yes, they’d spent almost four days together, working, eating, kissing, doing...other things, but they hadn’t necessarily put any label on what they were doing. Peter didn’t really know how any of this worked. Quentin seemed happy fucking, but where did he lie in actually getting to know him? Where did they differ in what they wanted due to the age gap?

Luckily the older man seems to read his indecisiveness, because he greets him with a kiss, something so intimate that it _can’t_ just be that they’re fucking. All the sensitivity from the couple weeks before is gone, and Peter cranes his head to deepen the kiss, even though they’re standing in the middle of a stairway where anyone could see.

“Evening, pretty boy.” He murmurs, speaking into the kiss like he can’t stand to be any further. “I didn’t mean it though. We do kinda have to rush.”

Peter jumps back, shaking his head, all lust gone from his mind. This is his first big break in Stark Industries, his first launch party, his first anything, really. He grabs Quentin’s hand and pulls him down the stairs, barely stopping to buzz the door open.

“How did you get in, anyway?” He says, regarding the always locked front door.

“Followed someone with a purple hat.” He says, and that’s that.

The whole car ride, Peter’s on the verge of a panic attack. He’d had pretty good confirmation that Tony Stark was to be present at the launch party, to be sat right at the front near Peter and the interns own table, making the decision ultimately as to whether the Binary Augmented Retro Framing project could go live. It was life or death, kinda.

At least, that’s what Quentin had said. He hadn’t stopped stressing how important this day was the whole week before. If he didn’t get this, he said, he had nothing.

Peter had told him he was being silly, that no matter whether or not the project would go live (which it _would_ ), he’d still be the boss of the holographic department, he’d still be someone everybody looked up. It had fallen kind of flat though. 

“There’s something off.” Quentin mumbles as they pull up to the entrance. They sit for a minute and watch couples stroll in, each in carefully picked outfits that compliment each other. “Can you feel it? It’s like there’s something wrong.” 

“Quentin.” Peter says, placing a hand on top of the older man’s. “It’s gonna be fine. You’ve rehearsed this a million times. You were all ready last week.”

Quentin nods, his jaw set. He looks at Peter for a minute before breaking into a smile, shaking his hair.

“You’re right. Look at you, my little intern, always the smartest one in the room.”

Peter’s stomach flips at that, the power imbalance playing on his mind like it has done ever since that night they spent together. It was something about the way Quentin was so tall, so large, that made the thought of him being superior ever hotter.

And Quentin didn’t know, not like Peter was excited for him to figure it out. He had a terrifying inkling that Quentin would hate it, but he had equally excitedly dreamt about the older man playing on the fantasy, leaving him tied and vulnerable while he watched in a suit.

“Sorry. Not an intern, right?” He laughs, but he turns with his head slightly to the side, watching with a smirk as Peter’s throat bobs uncomfortably. “Or maybe you like being an intern?”

_Not here, not now._

“Later.” He says, dark eyes still travelling down to Peter’s chest. “Promise.”

He nods at that, too choked to speak, before letting himself out of the car. He grips the sleeves of his coat tightly, sick anxiety rising in his throat. It’s not like he can reach across and hold Quentin’s hand for support.

The place is huge, chandeliers dangling over every round table, each holding a StarkPhone, because apparently that’s an appropriate gift for guests. Peter’s jaw drops as Quentin leads him to the group of interns sat around a table close to the stage, a little off the left but still close enough that they look important.

“I’ll see you after, okay?” Quentin whispers, his words almost lost over the white noise of chatter in the room. “Come backstage, no one will mind.”

Peter smiles nervously, giving Quentin a quick good luck as he leaves. The growing crowd is making him nervous, so he hurries to a seat Ned has left open for him.

“Hey, man!” He says, a wide grin stretching his face.

Peter returns the gesture with a small and albeit nervous smile. The phone sits in front of him, but he makes no move to pick it up.

Everyone’s already playing with theirs, setting it up and quickly swapping them over. Their own phones don’t look too old, not like Peter’s barely working flip one. It’s not that it’s embarrassing it’s just...yeah, it’s embarrassing.

“How was your ride here?” He asks, eyebrows wiggling.

“Shut up, man.” Peter says lightly. “He just lives near me.”

“Sure, sure.”

Peter rolls his eyes and turns back to the stage where a group of colleagues are placing tables and pieces of equipment. Peter didn’t know much about the Binary Augmented Retro Framing project, just that it only needed a simple piece of equipment to work, about the size of a forearm. He’d seen it in action only a couple times throughout his internship, and none outside of it - the public didn’t even know it existed.

Quentin’s on stage now, his eyes meeting Peter’s for a split second. He looks alright, as cool as Peter’s seen him, but he knows it must be even slightly nerve wracking. He’d spent long enough with him to know how stressed the man was right now on getting this right - like everything was riding on _his_ shoulders. 

He looks so in place up there though, with his sleek black suit and his clean hair and his light stubble. He looks like a businessman, one who’d spend his life behind an office desk and be fine with it. Peter can’t even tear his eyes away from him.

“Good evening.” Quentin starts, smiling into the sea of prestigious older men and women. Peter takes a moment to scan for Tony Stark, his heart thumping a little, but he’s nowhere to be seen. He wonders if that’s why Quentin’s jaw looks a little clenched. “I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”

And he jumps straight into the science of it, dropping a few off handed jokes in his speech. He looks more relaxed and Peter’s heart jumps, his smile growing softer and softer.

When he switches on the first hologram, however, Peter jolts.

It’s not a quiet surgery like he’d expected it to be, but rather a smaller scaled battlefield, its ground littered with bodies, the sky alive with fire. It takes up the whole stage, the trenches dipping down into the first row of people, and Peter jumps as a soldier falls to his left.

“Using holographic illusions in war results in less casualties, an almost one hundred percent accuracy in fire and the ability to damage control with just this.”

Quentin turns his forearm to the audience, a little screen showing buttons and sliders that Peter’d have to get closer to understand.

It doesn’t matter to the rich people in the audience, because they’re too busy drooling over the opportunity to give the United States an upper hand in future conflicts.

An explosion occurs upwards, just above Quentin’s head, lighting the stage with a target aiming on different soldiers. Each are struck in the heart, falling to the knees before splaying out on the derelict ground, blood pooling around them like clockwork.

Peter feels sick.

The Binary Augmented Retro Framing project had such potential to do so much good. Peter had often imagined the opportunity to use the project to help trauma victims, or to allow it to ease anxiety in hospital patients. The good opportunities were endless, but the team had decided to instead use it to create war.

“If I may, Mr. Beck,” a voice says, and Peter turns, searching through the endless unfamiliar faces. “Stark Industries ceased production on weaponry three years ago.”

_No. Fucking. Way._

Tony fucking Stark is sat on the table behind him and no one noticed.

It takes every inch of his body to pull himself away from the urge to leap across the table and declare his undying love for the way Tony Stark has changed the world. When Quentin clears his throat on stage, Peter turns and his breath hitches.

He looks furious in every sense of the word, his jaw clenched so hard he can almost feel the teeth breaking, his hands behind his back in tight balled fists. He’s looking at Tony like he’s just killed his dog. Seriously.

“I understand that, Mr. Stark, but conflict doesn’t stop just because Stark Industries does.” He speaks with a tight lipped smile, swallowing harshly. “The lives saved by just one half hour illusion may be thousands more than usual.”

Tony hums, but Peter’s too afraid to look back at him, because he’s sure he’s just as furious.

He’s not, actually, because when Peter’s curiosity gets the better of him, the head of SI is leaning back in his chair, a glass of scotch in one hand, his left leg crossed over the other. He looks as calm as anything, his sunglasses tilted just on the bridge of his nose.

“With all due respect, Beck, your invention would be of much more use to trauma victims and the mentally ill; I can offer to take it off your hands right now and give you thirty percent of the profit.”

If Quentin wasn’t furious before, he is now. He’s already waving the colleagues away, letting them turn the first hologram off.

“I believe I can change the holograms to read what I want them to read; if they’re being used for conflict one minute and allowing a trauma victim to heal the next.”

Tony hums again, downing the rest of the scotch. He stands, and Peter watches his fiancé, Pepper, stand behind him. Her hair’s tightly pulled back, and her face looks sour, like she’s wishing they were anywhere but here right now. She’s looking at him through slightly slitted eyes, like she’s used to his endeavours.

“Whatever you say, Mr. Beck. I believe I’ve seen enough. Please, continue. I’ll be in contact.”

He winks and smiles, leaving the room with a million eyes staring after him.

Including Peter’s.

The rest of the demonstration passes by in a blur. The rest of the holograms are calibrated a little differently, with one being used to show medical students a variety of surgeries, like Peter had expected, and another holding a suspected murderer on trial. The hologram demonstrated how it could be used to manipulate the mind and increase honesty by at least fifty percent in the early stages of development.

By the end of it, Peter’s thrilled - the opportunities are insane, not just in a business way but for society - but Quentin looked anything but. He regards the audience with a tight lipped smile, caught Peter’s eye, and walked off the stage with a tenseness about him.

Peter waited a few minutes afterward before excusing himself to the bathroom. He had no idea where it was truthfully, so it made his reason for making his way backstage all the more easy.

Quentin’s standing against a wall when he brushes past a second curtain into a large area filled with tables and different objects. Peter hadn’t paid attention to the line up after Quentin’s, which he can hear beginning on the stage a little way away from them.

“Quentin?” Peter half whispers, watching the older man pull a hand down his face. He looks at Peter fleetingly and then shakes his head, waving away one of his colleagues as they round the corner with a shake of his hand.

“We’re going home.” He says finally, and Peter swallows. Which _home_ did he mean?

“Tell your friends you’re leaving or you can walk.” He says, and pushes himself off the wall. Peter can’t even speak before he’s walking off, one hand fisted in his own hair as he mutters to himself.

Peter takes a breath, steadying himself for a minute. He’s never seen such fury threaded through those blue eyes, his jaw so clenched it’s like his teeth are breaking underneath the force. Peter watches him walk for a moment, jumping when he kicks a forgotten can out of his way much harder than necessary.

He thinks back to Ned’s car, wondering if it’s easier just to get a lift back with him, but he and Betty had gotten a lift together and were going to a bar down the street after the launch party. MJ’s sleeping, because she has a special art class at six in the morning on New Year’s Day, so he’s no other choice but to take Quentin’s offer or walk home in a thin coat in the middle of winter.

He sighs. The choice is easy.

Ned takes it well, winking at Peter as he grabs his coat, making some harmless comment about favouritism. Peter laughs lightly, ignoring the ball in his throat, and leaves in the middle of a demonstration about an upgraded watch under the engineering team. He’d have given anything to watch it, but he’d rather not be stranded.

Quentin’s waiting for him outside, the car already on and warming up. Peter approaches it tentatively, watching the way Quentin’s eyes twitch, one hand pressing into his forehead. The other is gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white, his forehead getting those lines he has when he’s stressed.

“Hey.” Peter says, cracking his knuckles nervously. He slides into the passenger seat, but Quentin doesn’t move. “I thought your idea was-”

“Peter shut up.” He says, eyes still closed. Peter doesn’t like that he can’t see his eyes, those eyes that hold all his emotion, like they’re literally the window to his soul. “And stop cracking your goddamn knuckles!” 

Peter jumps. Quentin’s eyes are open now, but they don’t look like his. They’re slitted, angry, dark in a way he’s never seen before. He swallows harshly and tries to focus on the parking lot in front of them, his eyes pricking with tears.

“Take me home.” He mumbles, voice thick.

Quentin just scoffs, starting the car like he’d break the key if he put it in any harder, and swings out of the lot. Some people are bustling around outside, smoking and chatting, happy and ecstatic that their projects are being launched.

It’s not like Peter doesn’t understand why Quentin’s angry - he does, really. He’d put in so much effort over the course of what was almost two years to create a project he thought had masses of potential, only for it to come crashing down in one night. And Peter knows Tony Stark hadn’t said they _couldn’t_ launch the Retro Framing project, but he’d still humiliated Quentin in front of an audience of prestigious adults. He gets it.

“I think Tony just feels uneasy around weaponry.” Peter offers, gentle as his voice can go. “After Afghanistan, I think he knows the effects of trauma and how much-”

“Peter if you don’t shut the fuck up right now, you can walk the rest of the way.” He says in response, voice seething as his grip tightens on the wheel. He changes gears, his knuckles brushing Peter’s thigh, and the younger man flinches.

“Look, I just-” Quentin sighs. “Peter, you’re only an intern. I’ve been working on this for years. My whole life was in his palms and he crushed it.”

Peter wants to point out that Tony didn’t say no to the project. He wants to point out that there’s so much more to Quentin than the project, that all he has to do is refine or find a way to work around it. Hell, he’d even tell Quentin to try and sell it to Norman Osbourne, who he knows doesn’t shy away from weapons.

But Quentin’s jaw is still clenched tight and his knuckles are white so Peter shuts his mouth tight and swallows his words and turns back to the uncomfortable silence.


	5. i’ll probably like it

“I’m not going straight home tonight.” Quentin says through the phone as Peter starts to board the subway. He had been at work early today, since about five in the morning, so he’d missed the chance to get a lift home. “I can come pick you up if you want?”

Peter stands against a pole, gripping with his left hand while he holds the phone against his ear. It’s his new phone, the StarkPhone Quentin had helped him set up a couple days after New Years. He still doesn’t know how to use it most of the time, but Quentin helps him and organises it every time he does something new.

“Where are we going?” Peter asks, not bothering to say no. He knows Quentin likes to spend as much time with him as possible and he loves it, he does. He just doesn’t know where they’re standing right now; he doesn’t want to spend so much time with him if they can’t even label themselves exclusive.

“Some of the colleagues I worked with on the Retro Framing project are going to this bar I used to work at. Means I still get discounts.”

He laughs, and so does Peter, the anxiety shaking its way from his body at the sound. Quentin had felt a little off ever since Tony Stark decided to take a higher level of control on the Retro Framing project Quentin had dedicated his life to.

Peter had been in an awkward kind of situation because on one hand, he stuck by Quentin through it all and understand how shitty Tony’s move had left him. On the other hand, Peter knew whole heartedly the trauma the head of SI had endured during Afghanistan, and knew he stuck by his decision to pull weaponry all those years ago.

Being in the middle was difficult. He and Quentin had fought over it viciously, much to his shock. Peter had simply suggested working half and half (or, eighty twenty) with Tony, and Quentin had basically kicked him out to the street when he tried to reason with him. He’d come back eventually, of course, but sitting on the sidewalk in the snow wasn’t something he wanted to repeat.

So Peter’d apologised. And it was sober as soon as it began, and Quentin didn’t seem to remember.

“Yeah, I’ll come. Anyone I know?”

“Only me, babe.” He said, and Peter could hear the smirk through the phone. The subway jolts to a stop beneath him. “That’s enough, right?”

“Of course, of course.” Peter mumbles, focussed on trying to manoeuvre his way out of the way of people packing themselves into the train. “I’ll call you back when I’m home okay?”

“Okay.” He says, and that’s that.

Peter sighs and takes the phone away from his ear, smiling to himself as Quentin’s contact picture fades to his lock screen. It’s a picture Peter had taken a couple nights after New Years, of Quentin’s tired head lying on the table of their claimed booth in the hidden corner of their favourite café. He smiles, because you can barely see his face, but he can still tell Quentin’s tired in it, aged over a couple days with burdens so large it kind of hurts to be near him. But in the picture he’s tired, soft, the kind of soft that makes Peter’s heart swell and his eyes grow fond. He’s very quickly falling in love, and it’s terrifying and comforting all at once.

By the time the subway’s stopped and he’s walking home, the anxiety starts to set in. He’d met a few of Quentin’s colleagues, but it’d been brief, and they didn’t really seem like the type of people he’d choose to hang out with. They seemed full on, too loud and aggressive in their tiny areas of work. He thinks of one of the men throwing his things on the ground, smashing a projector to pieces, and flinches. Nobody else had seemed to notice.

The sky’s dark, the streets lit with artificial light from street lamps. Moonlight was a rare thing in the middle of Queens at night, because it was an area that became so cloudy so often. Peter was more used to seeing greyish clouds than he was blue sky.

It’s already almost seven, and Quentin’s texting him, telling him to be ready for ten past. At this rate, he’ll barely have time to change out of his work uniform, and he doesn’t fancy meeting Quentin’s friends for the first time in the uniform from a different department of the same workplace. 

He tells Quentin this, practically running up the stairs as he reaches his apartment and pockets the phone, not even stopping to stroke the tabby cat he’s affectionately named Ginger. Creative, he knows, but perhaps her name will change when he has a spare day free away from Quentin and work and friends to spend time with her and give her a proper name. He can only hope.

He hurriedly pulls the keys from his back pocket, jamming them into the key hole. He has to wiggle it and push against the door to get it to open, but it eventually swings away from him and opens into an apartment he doesn’t remember ever seeing so messy.

He’d spent so long at Quentin’s and doing other things that by the time he was home to clean he’d been so exhausted he’d just fallen asleep. It had happened more times than he’d thought, apparently.

Sighing, he treads over discarded clothes and books and papers and reaches his bedroom. He’d been hoping to just flop down and sleep, but Quentin’s texting him that he’s outside and he stinks and he’s in a dirty work uniform and there’s nothing more he wants that to tell him to turn around and go without him.

But he can’t.

He knows Quentin won’t be angry, per say, but he knows it’ll piss him off. It’d piss Peter off too - he’s made him drive all the way out here and now he’s telling him to just go back? It’s pointless.

So he swallows the exhaustion running through his body and pulls a random t-shirt on. He’s barely got it over his head before there’s a knock on the door and he sighs, cursing under his breath because the only jacket he can find is one Quentin let him borrow and he never gave back.

He bites his lip before shrugging it on, popping a mint as he grabs his keys again. He hasn’t even been in the apartment for more than two minutes and he’s already out again.

“You ready?” Quentin says, his face light. “You’re wearing my jacket.”

“I’m so sorry, I had to rush and it’s the only one I can find and if you can just wait a couple minutes I’ll go-”

“Pete, hey,” the older man says with a laugh, shaking his head. His hair’s grown slightly longer so it’s swooping up onto his head in a small quiff. Peter thinks of it in a small bun when he’s in workout gear and immediately clenches his fists. They have somewhere to be. “It’s fine, keep it. You look cute in it.”

Peter shake his head, biting down on his bottom lip to keep the gleeful smile from spreading across his face. He lets Quentin kiss him on the back of the head as he locks the door, sighing in contentment. He’d stay here all day long and fall asleep right in Quentin’s arms if he could.

“Are you tired?” He says as they make their way down the stairs, Peter’s eyes blinking rapidly. “You look tired.”

“Long day at work.” He says with a small laugh, too tired to do anything but lean against Quentin’s arm as he leads him down the stairs.

“It gets longer. You can sleep in the car if you want. It’ll take about thirty minutes or so to get there. Closer to mine than yours.”

Peter just nods, mumbling a small goodbye to Ginger as they pass even though he’s not entirely sure she’s there. He tries to look for her, but Quentin’s car is warm and it smells like cinnamon and faint aftershave and the purr of the engine and a large hand on his thigh is too good to be true.

They’ve barely pulled out of Peter’s street before he’s slumped asleep on the passenger window, too content with the way Quentin’s gently rubbing his thigh to care about anything else.

*

“Pete? Peter, wake up.”

There’s a flashing light in Peter’s eyes as he comes to, green and red and blue, like a kaleidoscope in his subconscious. He blinks his eyes open wearily to see Quentin leaning slightly over him, the lights of the bar mostly covered by his frame.

“Sorry.” He says and puts a hand up, covering the light completely. “I didn’t want you to wake up with lights in your eyes.”

Peter’s heart swells and he swears he could jump out of his skin and kiss the life out of Quentin right there and then.

Instead, he pushes himself out of the seat, leaning over his knees to blink away the sleep. Quentin looks slightly tousled, like he’d gone for a run and then come back.

“You’ve been out for about an hour.” He says helpfully, answering Peter’s unspoken question.

“What?” Peter says a little too loud, pulling himself right upwards. “It only takes about thirty minutes to get here! Why did you let me sleep so long?”

He’s grumbling the whole time as they both exit the car and start towards the bar. The anxiety he feels about meeting Quentin’s friends fade into his mind as the exhaustion takes over, his body shaking out of its own accord. At least the cold wakes him up slightly.

Quentin explains that he’d looked adorable sleeping and he knew he needed it, but it doesn’t stop Peter from frowning. He didn’t want to seem like a burden, like Quentin couldn’t see his friends just because he was asleep. He would’ve sucked it up with a few shots and conversations and been fine with it.

“How late are we?” He whispers, barely audible over the noise as they enter the bar. Quentin’s hand is around his waist, soft but steady, and his eyes are scanning the place. He looks awake, all sharp edged and dark in his black jeans and his dark grey shirt. Peter’s lips tingle with the starvation of the fact they haven’t kissed properly in what must have been a week now.

“Oh, very. It doesn’t matter, though.” Peter raises his eyebrows and scoffs at that, letting Quentin lead him through the tables of people. Somewhere in the forefront of his mind, he’s praying that no one from the office is here. “Here.”

They end up at a booth on the other side of the room holding a young woman and man on one side taking a shot and an older woman and two man on the other. They all look up as they approach, eyes large and focussed.

“Beck!” One of the men says, and Peter jolts. Quentin smiles back at them, though, like his whole frame of mind is relaxed now that they’re actually inside.

“Nickname.” He whispers in Peter’s ear, arm still circling his waist, and guides him into the booth first. “This is Peter.”

Everyone says hi in their own different ways, mostly drunken and slurred. The woman next to him looks at him with blown pupils, her eyelashes caked in mascara. She looks older, but not old enough, like she’s going through a mid life crisis at twenty eight.

“We were waiting for you.” They say and Peter flushes red. But he doesn’t speak, and neither does Quentin, so he assumes it’s gone under the radar that it’s his fault they’re late.

The bar is busy, like it would be on a Friday night in January, but the noise is rising as the night gets later. Peter winces away from a spotlight, practically burying himself in Quentin’s arm, who seems more than happy to hold him there.

“He’s adorable.” Another woman says, plump and short and older with eyes that are slightly narrowed and icy when Peter looks up. He swallows and forces a half smile, too nervous to look at her for too long.

“Watch it.” Quentin says easily, leaning down to whisper quietly in Peter’s ear. “We won’t stay long. What do you want to drink?”

Peter looks up, taking note of the fact that not one drink on their table is non alcoholic. He swallows again, coughing in the back of his throat, and tells Quentin to order him a gin and lemonade. The older man’s lip quirks upwards, but he nods and leaves with a gentle squeeze to Peter’s arm.

“So, Peter,” the same woman from before says, leaning forward from where she’s sat parallel to him. “You staying for long?”

“Oh, uh, I don’t think so.” He says honestly, biting his lip. “I don’t know. However long.”

There’s this kind of presence on the table, like they all know something he doesn’t. It’s in their little glances, in the fumbling underneath the table, in the way the man who’s sitting on the table at the base is staring at Peter like he’s fresh meat. He looks over to where Quentin’s at the bar, lazily chattering with the barman, and feels his heart sink.

“Take this.” The woman says, nudging a small pill to him atop plastic bag. It’s white, and if it weren’t for the glint in the younger woman’s eyes, he’d have mistaken it for aspirin and thought nothing much of it.

“Sorry, I don’t-”

“You don’t do drugs?” The man sat next to Peter says, speaking for the first time since they got here. He’s smoking clumsily, something that Peter’s sure is a joint now that he’s looking closer. The smell suddenly envelops him, and he wonders how he hadn’t noticed before - the bar stinks of drugs and cigarettes and alcohol and sick. It’s dirty and nerve wracking.

“Nobody ever ‘does drugs’, kid.” He continues with a laugh. “Jus’ happens. Take it.”

Peter eyes the pill, his hands trembling. He’s about to open his mouth to refuse again when the younger woman from beside him grabs it and forces it into his mouth, his body too shocked to push her away. She hands him a bottle of beer, but he’s unwillingly to take that, too, so she pushes it against his lips and tips it so it runs down his chin, holding her hand over his mouth until the pill’s dissolving in the beer and he’s nothing else to do but to swallow.

“What the fuck?” He chokes, spluttering on beer and spit. They’re laughing though, giggling along with each other like it’s no big deal and _fuck_ , they’re all at least ten years older than him and maybe this is just how it is when you’re not a barely-teenager anymore.

He takes a shuddering breath, half from the taste of beer and half from the fact that they’d just drugged him with something he wasn’t familiar with. They’re all grinning, though, and the tension at the table has eased.

“Oh yeah.” The plump woman says with a laugh, and Peter can’t figure out if it’s unkind or not. “You’re definitely a bit of Beck.” 

So when Quentin comes back carrying a beer and a gin and lemonade, he doesn’t immediately pull him to the bathroom and cry, but smiles tight lipped and tries to find the funny side of it.

And it kinda works, because as the drug starts setting in he gets all happy and relaxed and Quentin’s feeding him as many drinks as he asks for, unaware that anything could possibly be wrong, until he’s been swallowing alcohol for the past two hours and he feels like it’s all gonna come bubbling at his lips.

So he slurs his words and excuses himself to the bathroom, hazily aware that someone, Quentin, is following him. He feels his hands on his waist when he stops against the sink, slumping into his shoulders.

“You okay?” He murmurs, kissing Peter’s shoulder gently. He sounds tired, but he’d cut himself off after two beers, because he didn’t want to kill them both driving home. The thought makes Peter laugh, but he doesn’t know why.

“My head hurts.” He says, and it’s not a lie. He can barely see straight, the bathroom tilting and squirming in his vision, his mouth tingling with the overwhelming urge to throw up. The nausea twists in his stomach until he’s spitting into the sink, barely able to stand.

“Okay,” Quentin says, hooking his arms around Peter’s waist. “I think we should go home.”

“No.” He whines, pushing at Quentin’s hands. When he looks up into the mirror, they look gorgeous, Quentin towering over him, his hair so tousled and brown and Peter just wants to die.

Dying would be stupid though, because then he wouldn’t be able to see Quentin’s face again, so he turns and slams his lips into the older man’s, clumsy and desperate as his arms wrap around his neck.

“Peter.” Quentin murmurs against his lips and then his jawline and then his neck, hot breath fanning all over his skin. “You’re drunk.”

“And high.” He sighs, eyes closed in bliss as Quentin makes his mark on a spot of skin underneath his collar. “A good, _ah_ , combination.”

Quentin pulls back with a surprised look, his eyes widening as he scans Peter’s face. He’s flushed, but he always is when they kiss, but his pinpoint pupils make him pull back.

“You took drugs?” He says, and it’s loud, really loud, so loud that Peter winces away, but there’s really nowhere to go when Quentin’s pressing him against the sink and his arms create a sort of cage.

“They gave it to me.” He whines again, body hot and tingling. “They put it in my mouth. Promise.”

Quentin still looks disgusted. It’s enough to even partially sober him up, because he looks so angry and pissed that he’s glaring and his arms are tightening around Peter’s waist, pressing and pressing and pressing until he can barely breathe.

“Quentin,” he gasps, clawing at his hands. “I can’t breathe.”

He lets go after a second too long, his face dark. He grabs Peter’s wrist, hard enough that the smaller boy yelps and instinctively tries to pull away, and starts pulling him away from the sink, grip tight and burning.

“It’s bad enough taking drugs.” He says, pulling Peter out of the bathroom and into the hallway, the air too hot and stinking of alcohol. The smell makes Peter’s head spin, the mix of alcohol and drugs and the smell and the warm making him so dizzy he can’t even protest as Quentin drags them out towards the table to collect their things.

“But lying?” He hisses, and finally yanks Peter out into the bar, his feet tripping over each other as he does. “That’s a whole different game you’re playing.” 


	6. the beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i hesitated in adding the dub con tag, but i think it’s gonna be needed. i didn’t originally plan for it to be present in this story, however it seems to be going a different way. please read the updated tags & make yourself aware :) love you!

“You’re so stupid.” Quentin seethes, pulling Peter behind him into the apartment. He’s crying, tears hot and heavy and his sobs are echoing in the stupidly empty apartment and he’s whining and Quentin swears he’s gonna fucking hit him if he doesn’t-

“You don’t take drugs, Peter.” He says again, pushing him to the couch not as gently as he’d like. “It’s not good.”

“And you don’t fucking lie.” He mutters, fumbling for a cup in the dim light of the apartment. He hadn’t had time to turn the light on, and it’s not at the forefront of his mind right now.

Peter’s sobs fill the room, and Quentin doesn’t even know why he’s crying anymore. He’s holding his wrist like it’s broken, his body trembling and shaking and he looks so small against the sofa but he’s also so pretty like this that it almost scares him.

Almost.

“Can you shut the fuck up for one second?” Quentin shouts, spinning with a cup full of water. It splashes onto the tiled floor, and he practically shoves it into Peter’s chest, watching him cry with annoyance and horrifically placed lust flowing through his body.

“Drink this.”

Peter makes no move to take the cup. He’s hiccuping, trembling so hard his hands are shaking against his mouth as he bites down on his fingers in the way Quentin’s mother used to. His big hazel eyes are soaked in tears, eyelashes clumped together, and the line between patience and annoyance is thinning. He shakes his head when Quentin pushes the cup towards him again, and that’s fucking it.

“For fucks sake, Peter!” He shouts, too frustrated to give a shit whether his neighbours are asleep. The walls are thin here, something he found out when he’d been fucking some random girl too loudly. “You fucking lied to me, embarrassed me in front of my colleagues, made a scene and you won’t even drink a glass of fucking _water_!”

Peter jumps and grabs the water, gulping it down with hands trembling so violently he looks like he’ll drop it at any second. His body’s shaking with sobs again, chest convulsing around the hiccups and the heaves and the water. The glass is empty within seconds, and he throws it halfway across the room without a second glance.

Quentin watches it with slitted eyes, but Peter’s already noticed, and he’s getting up, practically tripping over his own feet to grab the discarded cup. He’s still crying, awful, loud sobs echoing throughout the otherwise quiet apartment, and Quentin winces.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He cries, tripping as his head spins. He falls to his knees, scraping them against the carpeted floor, and looks up at Quentin with those big honey eyes. “I didn’t lie, I promise, please stop.”

He’s stuttering, but Quentin’s too busy focusing on finding out what he finds so irrevocably sexy about Peter on his knees crying his little heart out. He’s so dumbfounded he can’t even speak, just stroke the boy’s hair softly. He leans into it, whining through the cries, and Quentin swallows past a lump in his throat.

It’s not like he doesn’t know his kinks. He enjoys being dominant, being powerful over being powerless, but this is...different. This is Peter Parker sitting on his knees, poor baby eyes staring up at him like he’d choke himself just to make Quentin happy. This is tears and sobs and the way Peter’s hands are at his sides and the way he’s imaging them tied behind his back, or to the bed or... Fuck. 

“I didn’t lie, Quentin, I didn’t-” Peter sobs, his poor throat hoarse from crying and begging. “Please believe me.”

Quentin cocks his head, still stroking the soft brown curls atop Peter’s head. He’s so pretty, too pretty, the kind of pretty that has him zoning out just to stare at those eyes dripping in honey and tears.

“It’s okay.” He mumbles, heart swelling as Peter’s eyes light up. “I forgive you.”

Peter falls forward, reeling in exhausted sobs and relief. He’s thanking him over and over and over again until the words seem foreign, his arms gripping tightly to Quentin’s thigh.

He looks so pretty that Quentin doesn’t even think twice when he runs a hand down his stomach towards his crotch and gently pats Peter on the head. He’s still that clumsy kind of intoxicated you get with pills and alcohol, and he doesn’t even think twice as he looks back up at Quentin from his perfect place kneeling on the floor.

“I don’t know how you’re going to make it up to me.” He sighs with false sadness dripping from his voice, running a thumb over Peter’s wet bottom lip.

“Anything.” Peter says in return, tears still gently bubbling at his eyes. He’s stopped sniffling now, thank god, and his hands are gripping Quentin’s thighs, so little in comparison that he adds it to his list of things he loves about Peter Parker.

It fits in well along with the crying, the whining, the way he moans Quentin’s name, the way his thigh gap is the most perfect Quentin’s ever seen, the way his Cupid’s bow dips in the best place. He thinks the crying is almost topping with the way he’ll do anything and everything when he’s vulnerably intoxicated.

“I have an idea.” He hums, pushing his thumb past Peter’s lip and into his mouth, letting it rest on his wet tongue. He keeps his mouth open obediently, like he’ll refuse to do anything Quentin doesn’t ask of him.

“You wanna work it out for yourself, baby?”

It’s filthy, Quentin knows, but it’s so hot he doesn’t even think about whether it’s wrong or not. Peter looks so innocent, so baby like that it’s sinful. With a thumb in his mouth and his big hazel eyes flicking from Quentin’s face to his cock, he looks anything but.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. He’s stopped crying now, but his cheeks are stained with tears and he’s fumbling with Quentin’s zipper and it’s all he can do but thank the gods that he’s sober enough that he’ll remember this for the rest of his life.

The camera flash as he records it doesn’t hurt, either.

*

Peter doesn’t sleep at all that night. He lies against Quentin’s chest, body dipping in and out of dizziness, the sobriety slowly slipping back into his consciousness as the morning grows nearer. Quentin doesn’t ease up the arm around his waist all night, making it impossible for him to find a comfy area on his own to sleep.

The sun rises eventually, creating a pale orange glow in the room. The bed, placed precariously in the middle of the room, is warm and feels so soft against his naked body that it’s hard to be upset.

Quentin hadn’t believed him, still probably didn’t, and the thought makes his heart sink. He doesn’t know how to tell him that it had been real, even though he’d promise and swear down to his grave that it was true. He knows it’s a waste of breath, but he dreams about it anyway.

As the sun rises, Peter starts replaying the events of last night, numb and hot and barely able to move but burning up all the same. Maybe Quentin was right. Maybe he’d already been drunk by the time they gave him the pill. He doesn’t really remember much, if anything, from that night before they left the bar bathroom. He remembers too much after.

It’s almost seven in the morning when Quentin starts to stir, making Peter’s body subconsciously tense. He almost starts crying against the silk pillowcase again, but he manages to swallow it and ignore the burning in his eyes.

“Morning, baby.” He hums, stretching against Peter’s bare back. He doesn’t dare move, too afraid of turning to see the same fury in Quentin’s eyes as he did last night.

“Say it back.” He grumbles, but his voice lacks bite. Peter assumes it must be the early morning, the fact that he hasn’t had his coffee yet, the fact that he’s got a headache. It sounds anything but how he spoke last night.

Peter still doesn’t speak, doesn’t even move as Quentin presses a kiss to his upper arm. He takes a stuttering breath and exhales, trying to swallow the shake in his voice.

“Morning.”

Quentin turns, leaning over Peter’s side curiously. His beard’s getting longer, and all Peter wants to do is lean up and kiss him but his head hurts and his brain won’t stop running wire with images of Quentin’s hand tight around his wrists, of Quentin shouting and pulling and of the blowjob he can still feel in his throat.

He wonders if it’s pathetic to be hung up on it, but he can’t will it away no matter how hard he tries.

“What’s wrong?” Quentin murmurs, voice low against Peter’s gently freckled arm.

He gently pulls Peter towards him, rolling him over on the bed till he’s facing him. His face is steady, concern painted over his features. He looks so genuine that the thoughts are almost pushed entirely from Peter’s brain.

But he looks genuinely confused and that hurts. How could he not have even an inkling of what was wrong?

“The bar, I-”

“Oh for fucks sake, Peter.” He groans, flopping back onto the bed.

“It hurt.” Peter protests, still feeling the phantom pains of a hand around his wrists, of carpet burn on his knees. “My head hurts.”

“That’s not my fault.” Quentin mumbles, swinging his legs out of bed. He’s wearing checkered pyjama bottoms, even though Peter’s almost entirely naked. The thought makes his skin crawl in a way he can’t figure out. 

“I didn’t say it was your f-”

“Well you’re acting like it.”

“Oh my god, can you let me speak?” Peter cries, pulling his body to a sitting position. Quentin’s sat on the edge of the bed, facing down at him with a glare over his face. “Stop putting words in my mouth.”

Quentin opens his mouth and then closes it again. He looks oddly stiff, like he’ll snap any second, and Peter doesn’t have enough common sense to shut his mouth when he’s this angry.

“Did you fuck me last night?” He finally says, the words spitting from his mouth from where he’s tried to swallow them countless times. “I was drunk.”

“You - what? You’re the one who came onto me, Peter, what the fuck?” He seethes back, leaning forward on the bed. His fists are clenched tight, like he’s holding all the anger inside his body, and Peter tries to bite down the words to prevent another argument.

“I was drunk.” He repeats, heart beating too fast to stop. He should shut up. It’s really not that big of a deal, but he can’t stop and if he’s not careful, Quentin’ll leave and never come back to him.

He thinks about that possibility and almost drops his elbows, body begging to crawl towards Quentin and press apologetic kisses to his face until he forgets all about it. And then Quentin’s speaking again and he still looks tense but he’s tired and it’s rolling off him in waves.

“Look, I’m sorry if that’s not your thing. We’re still getting to know each other.” He says, and it’s true. They really didn’t know each other that well, and had barely scraped the surface of what they both enjoyed in the bedroom. “You kept crawling over me and I thought it was one of those things you liked. I’m sorry.”

Peter’s brain short wires.

He’d been expecting Quentin to blow up, to be offended by what Peter had rightfully accused him of. Instead, he leans forward and grabs Peter’s hand, stroking it with his thumb gently.

“I know you didn’t mean it.” He murmurs, and Peter doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about anymore. “Accept my apology and I’ll accept yours.”

Peter’s mouth falls open to ask what he has to be sorry for, but it’s swallowed by Quentin lips. He doesn’t taste like usual, and the tang of beer and tequila mixes in between his teeth.

“I got you home.” Quentin murmurs, his teeth scraping against Peter’s neck. It feels so good that he can’t even speak, because Quentin hasn’t touched him like this sober in almost two weeks, and he can only breathlessly pant as the older man continues. “I let you sleep. You drank so much you threw up and you _lied_ to me.”

“I, _ah_ , I didn’t.” Peter insists, pulling half heartedly away from Quentin only for his large hand to stop him, strategically placed at the back of his curly head.

“I asked everyone there, baby.” He says, too soft, too gentle. “You took it fine. I think you were too drunk.”

He gently rubs his hands up and down Peter’s arms, warming the skin he hadn’t realised was cold beneath him. His lips are still moving, trailing until they reach that spot Quentin’s claimed as his favourite. He sucks, gently enough that it leaves Peter arching his back and whining.

“You have more to apologise for than me.”

And maybe Peter actually does.

Because he _had_ been black out drunk. He can hardly remember anything from the night before. And maybe, even though it was completely out of character, he’d actually taken the pill voluntarily. The thought solidifies and Quentin sucks a little too hard, hard enough that Peter yelps and flinches at the hands around his waist.

“I’m sorry.” He cries, voice breaking on the apology. Quentin stops sucking almost as soon as he apologises, and Peter relaxes against the gentle kisses. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“I know, baby, I know.” He hums, and pulls away with a last kiss pressed to his neck. “What do you want for breakfast?”

Peter whines as Quentin pulls back, but he winks and rubs his thigh with a promise of later in his eyes. He flops back down onto the bed, giggling as Quentin leans over and picks him up bridal style.

It feels weird, to be laughing in Quentin’s arm when only moments ago his heart was beating so hard with anxiety that that he could feel it in his throat. It’s difficult to be mad for too long though, when it feels so homely in his arms.

“You’re light.” He says, groaning quietly as he pulls himself back upwards. It’s hard to imagine they’d be arguing just a few minutes prior, but the worries are swallowed by Quentin’s big blue eyes and the sincerity of emotion.

“Pretty boy.” He mumbles again, nuzzling his nose into Peter’s hair, just above his ear. He giggles and squeals as Quentin dips, pretending to trip over something that isn’t there.

By the time they’re in the kitchen, Peter sat gently on the counter while Quentin makes pancakes, never taking his left hand off his thigh for longer than a minute, he’s forgotten why he was angry at all in the first place.


	7. place your bets

Peter doesn’t want to say his engineering project is easy but...okay, it’s easy.

In fact, it’s so easy, he’s finished two weeks before the deadline, and has already started on something due in afterward. The only other intern, some gloomy boy named Brad, was still struggling, so Peter’d abandoned his future projects to help him.

Brad doesn’t say much, but neither does Peter, so they work in comfortable silence, Peter sorting the engine to the small robot, Brad tinkering with its left arm.

It hadn’t come to them with a broken arm. That had just happened.

“How are my favourite interns?” A voice says, and Peter jumps, barely able to steady his hand from where it’s practically inside the robot.

In front of him is Tony Stark himself, one hand lazily resting on the buttons of his suit jacket, the other pulling down a pair of shaded blue sunglasses to peer over the top.

He sees their staring and winks, like it’s the most normal thing in the world to surprise two interns who aren’t even twenty one and tell them they’re his favourites. It’s totally not a fanboys biggest dream. 

“You’re the only ones who chose engineering.” He explains, sitting at the table opposite them. Peter’s still staring, barely able to close his mouth. “I couldn’t give a shit if they ended up in PR with Rogers...which, might I add, most of them _did_.”

Peter snorts out a laugh, trying to get his brain to work right. He can’t speak, can’t even move, but Brad’s quicker and sneakier and he’s not starstruck in the way Peter’s mind has reduced him to.

“Ah, there’s my Dum-E.” Tony smirks and prods at Peter’s robot.

No way.

He’d been fixing Tony Stark’s personal fucking robot?

“You’ve done a good job with him.” He murmurs, running two fingers gingerly over the still sleeping robot’s parts. “Looks good as new. Not that he’ll stay like that for long.”

“Thank you.” Brad chirps in, and it takes Peter a while to figure out what’s thanking Tony for.

“This is your work?” Tony says, genuinely amazed as he looks over the work that _Peter’s_ done.

“Yes, sir.” Brad says before Peter can open his mouth.

He turns to him, mouth parting because surely he can’t be hearing this right? He’s holding the robot that Brad fucked up while the other man takes credit for his work? Are they in high school?

Apparently not, though, because Brad just smiles tight lipped and doesn’t look at Peter. Tony hums and turns to the robot Peter’s holding, making a noise of gratification.

“What happened to his arm?” He asks, and Peter can’t get the bite from his voice. He could tell him the truth, but wouldn’t that make him the childish one, telling on his fellow intern like a thirteen year old kid? He looks at Brad’s smug little face now that Tony’s not looking at him and wants to slap it off, his eyes narrowing.

“An accident.” He says and leaves it at that.

“An accident.” Tony repeats, still thumbing over Dum-E. He looks at the broken robot to where Peter’s hands are still fumbling, covered in oil and dirt, and stands.

“You.” He says and cocks a thumb at Peter, already walking toward the door. “With me. I won’t wait.”

Peter doesn’t even have time to think before he’s clambering over the chair to follow Tony out of the room, barely getting chance to wipe his hands before he leaves. He doesn’t look at Brad, too pissed with childhood annoyance to pay him any attention.

“Mr. Stark?” He says, hurrying to keep up with the man’s long strides. Peter’s 5”7 at best, and his legs knock together like Bambi, but he tries his best.

“ _Inteligente_.” Tony says, almost to himself. Peter’s not familiar with foreign languages, but he can guess what it means. “You let him take the credit.”

Really, he shouldn’t be surprised that Tony knew. He’d been in the business since he was young, was awarded one of the smartest men of their generation. He probably knew more about people than they did themselves. 

“How did you know it was mine?” He asks anyway, curiosity getting the better of him.

Tony doesn’t speak for a while, just presses the button on the elevator and steps back to guide Peter into it. It’s got a glass wall on the back, opening into the large circle separating the floors of the SI building. He can’t even help himself, the childish bewilderment of interior design he never saw when he was younger, pressing himself against the glass with parted lips before Tony can even press the button.

He hears a low laugh from behind him, the soft beep of a button, and then there’s a presence on his right, though it’s not facing the same way Peter is.

“Your face doesn’t hide much, kid.” He says, and Peter flushes. “Plus, his hands weren’t dirty. Dum-E was.”

“He could’ve dried them.” Peter points out, and then bites his lip. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologise.” Tony says as the elevator comes smoothly to a stop. He ushers Peter to step out, following quickly behind. “I’ve seen your work.”

“Your work with Quentin Beck?” He says, and Peter’s heart jumps. He hadn’t thought it would feel so taboo to date someone he worked with, but here he is, sweating at just his name. “Outstanding. But I’m glad you chose to come to the engineering department. Your portfolio is overwhelming.”

Peter’s too stunned for words. He’d floated through, in a kind of haze because it was too shocking to even be speaking to Tony Stark, let alone have him walk him through to god knows where. And now he’s complimenting his work? Peter must be dreaming.

He pinches himself anyway, but he’s still here, still walking, and Tony’s still talking and gesturing with his hands and Peter might actually faint with fanboyish amazement because he’s literally talking to _Tony Stark_. He still had a magazine kept at his Aunt’s house just because Tony had been on the front of it.

They turn a corner, walking past an area Peter knows all too well. It’s the CGI department, and Peter feels his heart sink.

Even if Quentin didn’t see him, one of his colleagues would. He didn’t even know why it felt so upsettingly taboo - this was his biggest dream, stood right in front of him, walking him to somewhere that might change Peter’s life forever. Sure, his kind-of boyfriend hated the living daylights out of Tony Stark, but he wouldn’t let it ruin this for him.

And of course, as Parker luck would have it, Quentin exits the departments’ break room just before he and Tony are about to pass.

“Peter.” He says, genuinely surprised. He falters for a second, eyes too focused on Peter to notice Tony staring at him in a similar kind of way. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m bringing Peter to my office to speak about a personal internship.” Tony says cooly and Peter’s jaw drops. He turns with a small smirk, eyes focussing on Peter. “I know talent when I see it.” 

Peter’s too busy trying not to have a panic attack to notice the water bottle in Quentin’s hand making a crinkling noise. He feels like he’s gonna throw up out of pure ecstasy, too busy gaping like a fish to make words string together.

“You have fun with that, Mr. Stark.” Quentin says, but he’s spitting it out like it pains him to speak. His eyes grace over Peter, who’s still gaping and flicking his eyes between Quentin and Tony like they’re two rabid dogs. “He’s a perfectionist.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Tony says immediately and begins walking with a small smile playing on his lips.

Peter’s instincts make his feet move even though he’s still half nervous and half too excited to breathe. Quentin looks like he wants to stop him, but they’re working, and the last thing Peter wants is to fuck up what may be the most important moment of his life so far.

“I’ll catch you later.” Peter whispers as he passes Quentin, spinning on his feet so he’s half walking backwards. “Promise.”  
  
Quentin doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even smile. He lowers his hand, holding a now very crumpled water bottle, and walks off with an aura that’s gleaming red, too harsh on the eyes to watch.

Peter swallows, spinning back round to face Tony’s back. He hurries a little to catch up with him, Quentin shamefully pushed from his mind as he overthinks Tony’s statement over and over.

“Did you mean it?” He breathes, feeling like he’s run a half marathon. The thought of working with Tony Stark in a personal internship makes his skin tingle, and he doesn’t even care for what he’d be doing.

“Do I lie?” He replies, his face hard but not unkind. “You're a good kid. Smart. I’ve got something I need your help with.”

Peter hums, afraid that if he speaks he’ll literally be sick. He wants to know where Tony got his name from, where he got the credentials, but he swallows back the words because maybe it’s too good to be true. Maybe he’s looking for another intern.

They eventually come to the end of the seemingly endless corridor, and Tony swings open a lonely door on the left to reveal an albeit smallish room, the soft daylight filtering through floor to ceiling windows and a small skylight. It’s clean, like it hasn’t been used in a while, and smells like a weird mix of peppermint and aftershave.

Peter doesn’t recognise the name on the plaque, a _Happy Hogan_ , but Tony sits at the desk anyway, motioning for Peter to take the chair opposite him. He looks relaxed, his aura so contagious that Peter finds himself calming down slightly.

The room’s small, but it’s still more furnished than Peter’s entire apartment. Between the offices and Quentin’s apartment, every worker here seemed to have an eye for interior design, whereas Peter lacked it viciously. 

“Peter Parker.” Tony finally says, flicking through something on the computer, his thumb near his mouth. “Twenty. Engineering major. Top of the class every year running in MIT.”

He quirks an eyebrow and Peter blushes. It was true - he’d been star student every year, something he’s sure must have started Flash’s relentless teasing and borderline bullying. MJ had given him a run for his money a couple years, but she’d always stayed second, much to her vocal dismay.

“Decathlon, presidential award for bioscience.” Tony continues, and Peter realises he’s drifted off. Again. “ _Mi stai dando una corsa per i miei soldi, ragazzo._ ”

Peter has no idea what the hell that means.

“Sorry. Didn’t think languages was your strong point.” He doesn’t say it unkindly, but Peter shifts in his seat with a nervous smile anyway. He doesn’t really deserve to be here, actually; he wasn’t special.

Now, he’s sure Tony means well, but he’s about half a second from leaping out of his seat and letting the words _what the hell do you mean personal internship?_ spill from his lips.

“Mr. Stark?” He asks, cursing the way his voice shakes. “Did you mean what you said? Back then?”

Tony regards him for a minute, furrowing his eyebrows like he’s trying to learn thermodynamics from an open book. Peter’s never been good at getting his emotions in check, getting his book to close, and the way he’s staring makes him uncomfortable.

“Beck is a smart man. He put it in a very good word for you up with Barnes in the penthouse.” 

Peter’s jaw drops. Bucky Barnes was one of the world’s most innovative inventors out there, because he could make anything from scratch with minimal tools and supplies. And he used them for good, too, like the design of a new hospital bed that read body signals to spot pain waves. Humans, as he said in an extremely rare interview, were catastrophic for lying. This would get people the help they needed ten times quicker than it would waiting for the patient to speak. Particularly helpful in babies and trauma victims.

“He wants you in his department, doesn’t he?” Peter swallows, too nervous to nod or to shake his head or to move a single inch while Tony leans back with an ankle resting on his knee. “That would make him your boss, you know? Because you’re an intern?”

Shit.

“Mr. Stark, it’s not-”

“Not what it looks like, yeah, kid, I know. And don’t get me wrong, I’m extremely pleased he did, because it brought me to digging up all sorts of fun things about you.” He looks up through his eyelashes from where he’s now bent over a piece of paper and smirks. “In a science way, of course.”

“What I meant to say,” He sits back up and presses his lips together. “I don’t need an intern getting into trouble with a man who’s now _very_ in the public eye in the workplace, okay? Do whatever you want outside, but it doesn’t come here. They have eyes everywhere.”

He says the last but jokingly, but Peter lurches forward, shaking his head like all the emotions are spilling from him at once. Fuck. Was this the only reason he wanted to talk to him?

“Mr. Stark, I promise you, it’s nothing like that. I have never and would never do anything like that, I promise.”

“I believe you, kid, I believe you.” He says and folds the papers which Peter assumes are a paper copy of his resume. “It’s not you I don’t trust.”

Peter doesn’t catch the last bit, because he’s too busy trying not to hyperventilate to hear. He’s been here, at proper work in the engineering department, for what, three weeks? And he’s already being called to speak to the head, the literal ruler of New York City at least, all because of something he hasn’t even done yet.

And would never do. Ever.

“Anyway. The personal internship.” Tony says, clapping his hands together. Peter’s too dizzy to look at him properly, but he blinks and tries to focus anyway. “I have a few things I need sorting. Little jobs in the lab here and there, maybe a few larger arc reactor projects. A couple launch parties and gala’s and you’ll be living the dream, kid.”

Holy shit.

There’s no way he’s actually here. There is no way on Earth that Tony Stark is sat in front of him, asking clumsy, too skinny to look twenty, Peter Parker to work with him on his personal projects. And the arc reactor project? Only the biggest power source, almost like a huge battery, being made right in this very building and _he_ was to work on it? He feels like he’s gonna throw up.

“I’m gonna be sick.” He breathes, but thankfully the nausea is subsiding. Tony just watches him for a while, a little smile playing at one corner of his lips, like it’s just another Thursday to him.

Hands shaking, he pulls them in towards himself and tries to calm his erratic heart, breathing in and out and in and out. He’s gonna fuck the offer before it’s even been properly given to him.

“Yes. Yeah, yes please, I mean. Please.”

Tony just laughs, slapping his hands gently on the table. Peter can’t help but quietly laugh back, trying to shake all the anxiety from his body as he does so.

“Yeah? You’re up for it?”

“Yes.” Peter says, and it’s more confident this time, more like his head’s screwed on properly. “I’m up for it.”

Is he supposed to be acting nonchalant about this?

“Great. Great, great.” Tony shakes his head, pulling his phone out from his pocket. It’s one Peter hasn’t seen before, sleeker, smaller. It fits in his one hand nicely, and Peter aches for his old crappy one back.

“I’ll introduce you to everyone tomorrow, if that’s okay? There’s a big radioactive test downtown tonight, so we’re monitoring that.”

Peter nods vigorously, the nausea back in his stomach, rising to his chest and his throat. It doesn’t feel unlike when he became president of the decathlon team, just a lot, lot bigger.

“You can finish your - Brad’s - robot project tomorrow morning. Meet me at one sharp here. Okay?”

Peter nods and takes that as his cue to get to his feet, his vision swaying in a good way. He’s so excited his teeth are starting to chatter, his breaths shaky through his mouth.

“And kid?” Tony says from the desk as Peter reaches the door, his hand stupidly trembling on the knob. “Don’t look so scared. You’re fine.”

And that’s the most sincere thing Tony’s said to him, the words _you’re fine_ dripping in promise, so he smiles back and opens the door before he can embarrass himself further by dropping to his knees and thanking the gods.

He takes a moment to stand outside the closed door, barely blinking, barely breathing. That just happened. Really.

And he knows it just happened because as he walks back the way he came, he’s pinching himself over and over and over again. He still hasn’t woken up, and he’s got ten fingers, so there’s nothing else for this to be but a spectacular miracle of events.

Peter finds himself thanking all the times he did his homework early, all the times Mr. Harrison kept him late and told him he was smart, but he could be smarter. He can’t wait to tell May, and he’s already pulling his phone out to type with shaky hands when he runs into something warm and hard.

“Oh, I’m so sorry I-” He says, looking up from his phone to see Quentin staring down at him. He immediately relaxes, not even bothering when the older man takes his wrist and pulls him into the break room.

“Oh hello to you, too, Quentin, I’m fine thank you, how are you?”

The break room’s empty, and quiet, save for the low whirring of a coffee pot. It’s about three in the afternoon, and Peter gets off at the graceful time of five. He’s never been so happy for an early finish.

“What did Stark want?” Quentin says, finally speaking to him for the first time since they got in here. He leans against the counter, feet almost touching Peter’s in the narrowest bit of the corridor.

“Oh my God, Quentin, it was amazing. He wants me to work with him on these projects and meet the whole team and he said-”

“You’re going to do it?” Quentin gawks, genuine surprise in his voice. Peter pulls back, his eyebrows knitting together.

“Of course. It’s the biggest opportunity of my career. Who knows where-”

“I offered you the same.”

There, again with the interrupting. Peter can’t remember the last time he was able to finish a single conversation with Quentin without him interrupting. He looks short wired, like he’s just waiting for Peter to say the wrong thing so he can blow up.

“This is in the engineering department.” Peter says, hurt and offended. Of course he’d take it - he’d be stupid not to. “Q, this is big. Like, really, really, _really_ big.”

They don’t speak for a long time, and the longer it drags out, the more upset Peter gets. He hadn’t seen an ounce of happiness on Quentin’s face when he spoke, not from the moment he saw him with Tony till now. He knows if he’d have bumped into Ned, the younger man would have been jumping and yelling and probably would have knocked something over in his excitement.

“Why aren’t you happy for me?”

Quentin scoffs, shaking his head. His tongue’s in the side of his teeth, pushing out his lip like he always does when he’s frustrated or angry. Peter’s seen it quite a lot over the last couple of weeks, and he’s not sure why.

“Fuck, I am happy for you, Peter, it’s just-” he trails off, swearing under his breath. “Tony Stark isn’t the kind of guy to just take on an intern like that. You haven’t even been here two months.”

Okay. Ouch.

“He said my portfolio was incredible, and your recommendation really helped me.”

“That recommendation wasn’t for him.” Quentin’s walking around now, pacing back and forth up the counter like his feet’ll get stuck to the floor if he stands any longer. His fingers are tapping on his thighs, the way they do when he’s trying to work something out.

“Why you?”

That stings.

Peter doesn’t even know why he’s so upset, why he’s asking this at all. Quentin hated the skin off Tony Stark, hated the way he moved and the way he spoke and the way he breathed. He’d only told Peter as much. But he can’t think of any other reason that he’s speaking like this other than jealousy.

“Why does it matter? It’s still a career breakthrough.”

Quentin nods, short and sharp, in that sure fire way that shows this conversation is over. Peter’s shoulders slump though, and he begins thinking it over. Why had Tony chosen him? Quentin was right - he’d only been here a couple months, he wasn’t anything special.

“We’ll talk about it at home.” He says and steps forward to kiss Peter on the forehead.

It’s quick and doesn’t linger, and before Peter can ask who’s home he’s talking about, the man’s gone, and Peter’s left alone in the unfamiliar break room.

He takes a deep breath and pockets the phone again, hands trembling gently.

He could tell May later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “mi stai dando una corsa per i miei soldi, ragazzo” = you’re giving me a run for my money, boy.


	8. i wanna be yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double update because i wanted to thread this chapter & the next together, but it would have made it too long. :)

The apartment seems empty when Peter gets home, using the spare keys Quentin had given him a couple weeks back. He knows the older man’s home, because his bag’s at its usual place on the spare seat at the dinner table, and his coat’s lazily strewn across the back of the sofa, but other than that, there’s no sign of life.

The apartment’s big, bigger than Peter would have originally thought, so it’s not hard for Quentin to be somewhere around but not necessarily in hearing range from the front door. He calls out, just to make sure, and winces when the there’s no answer.

Quentin hadn’t waited for him at the car like he usually did everyday. He hadn’t even spoken to him since earlier that afternoon. It makes warily moving towards the bedroom all the more terrifying.

Peter’s not stupid. He knows his heart shouldn’t be beating a thousand times a minute just at the thought of seeing his boyfriend. (If they were that, even now.) It’s just because they’re late, he tells himself, even though they still have an hour and a half.

He’d offered to take Quentin for a meal earlier, and he’d responded with a thumbs up emoji. It was to celebrate Peter bagging possibly the biggest opportunity of his life, but also to rekindle something lost after the bar incident. Plus, it gave Peter a chance to sit Quentin down, where he wasn’t distracted by work, and ask him what the hell they were doing. He’s pretty sure he knows, but he wants to hear Quentin _say_ it.

The shower’s running in the en suite connecting to Quentin’s bedroom when he finally gets to the doorway. He smiles softly to himself at the outfit laid out on the bed, and kicks his shoes off.

Quentin’s quietly humming when he knocks on the door and lets himself in, the steam fogging the already misted door to the shower. He can only see Quentin’s face and his shoulders when he turns to face him, soap in his hair.

“Peter! Shit.”

He puts his head back under the water, scrubbing at his hair quickly. Peter just laughs and shrugs off his jacket and shirt, running the tap so he can at least freshen up his face before they leave.

“You weren’t supposed to be home yet.” Quentin calls through the shower door, his face turned towards the water. “I had a surprise.”

“Surprises make me nervous.” Peter replies, drying his hands on a towel Quentin’s folded out for himself. His own hair is getting slightly long, but Quentin says he prefers it when it’s like this, all curly and long and perfect for pulling.

Maybe the last bit was only something he thought, though.

“Everything makes you nervous, baby.” 

Peter winces. True.

The shower stops and Peter watches as Quentin shakes his head, grabbing a towel from where it’s placed right next to the door, and wrapping it round his lower waist. He doesn’t even want to look when he steps out, because if he does, they might never make it to dinner.

“I don’t know how nothing makes you nervous.” Peter says distractedly, squeezing toothpaste onto a toothbrush. He’s not sure whether it’s his or Quentin’s, but it doesn’t matter. It’s clean.

Suddenly he feels arms around his waist and a wet chest against his back. He squeaks and lurches forward into the sink, his hip bone banging on the ceramic.

“Quentin!” He breathes, body arching from the cold water on his torso. “You’re all wet.”

Quentin just laughs, reaching around Peter to grab a razor and the shaving gel off the top of the sink. There’s a little cup of water ready for him, so Peter sits himself on the toilet lid and spits out toothpaste into the sink.

They don’t talk for a while. They don’t even have to, because the situation is so homely that it makes Peter’s heart swell. He doesn’t even care about going out anymore, just focussed on the fact that he wants to stay here forever and ever and ever. Quentin catches his eyes and smiles, a lopsided smile that pulls at his eyes and Peter grins back, foamy toothpaste masquerading his teeth.

“You’re weird.”

“You’re scruffy.” Peter bites back, spitting the toothpaste out again.

“Not for long.”

Peter watches Quentin shave curiously, because he’d never really needed to do it himself. There’s something so intimate about sitting in a steamy bathroom on a toilet lid watching someone you want to spend the rest of your life with. The thought terrifies him and excites him at exactly the same time.

“What’s my surprise?” Peter says, unable to keep the words in his mouth any longer. He usually hates surprises because they send him into a frenzy, too nervous to feel comfortable. By the smirk on Quentin’s face, though, he’s not sure he’ll hate this one at all.

“You’re too late.” He replies easily, stopping with his razor halfway to his chin to look down at Peter. “You’ll have to wait till we get home.”

“But-”

“Peter.”

Oh.

Peter’s not stupid. He went to MIT a whole year early, for gods sake. He can read a room when it’s screaming this loudly at him.

It’s in the way Quentin winks, in the smirk, in the way that the surprise will obviously be more fun when they have time. It’s in the way he turns back to the mirror with a low laugh, knowing Peter’s mouth is gaping open.

Peter flushes and looks away, spitting out the last of the toothpaste. He runs the toothbrush under the water, flicking it away before he starts to head to the bedroom. Quentin catches him with a laugh, nudging him to go get ready in anything he wants, including, as he shouts back after him, any of his clothes that took his fancy.

The whole bedroom smells like soft aftershave and clean laundry, so much so that Peter takes a second to stand by the closet and just smell. Maybe it’s weird, but he’ll never ever grow tired of Quentin’s smell.

He regards the new plant on the windowsill, freshly watered by the empty cup knocked over next to it, smiling to himself. Quentin didn’t seem like the type of guy to keep plants when you saw him on the street.

“Dinner date.” Peter mumbles to himself, flicking through the rows of Quentin’s clothes. They’re all fresh and hung, clean like the rest of the apartment. They’ll all be miles too big for him, and he sighs while running his hands over a dark jacket.

What the hell do you even wear to a dinner date? Fancy clothes, he’s sure, but wouldn’t it just look even more stupid to be wearing clothes that didn’t fit him than just going in casual wear?

Peter looks back at the outfit Quentin’s laid out for himself, a pair of black jeans and a white shirt, a dark brown tie laying on top. There’s a black jacket hanging up on the top of the bathroom door, just above a pair of dress shoes slightly off the left. He was obviously going for the smart look.

“Quen!” Peter calls, turning to see Quentin already leaning in the doorframe. “You’re too big.”

He just smirks with a wink, and Peter groans.

“Nothing’ll fit me.”

He can feel Quentin behind him, his torso dry now as it presses against Peter’s still bare skin, his chin resting gently atop his head. He’s murmuring something too low for Peter to hear, his arms so warm and large and gentle that he wants to fall asleep right now.

“Just wear a sweater or something.” He mumbles, pressing a kiss to Peter’s temple before moving away to pick at his outfit. “You’ll look gorgeous in anything.”

Peter grumbles and picks out a cropped checkered sweater from near the end of the wardrobe. He’d worn a shirt to work today, so he can at least layer it and look somewhat presentable.

“I want my surprise.”

Quentin laughs, shaking his drying hair. Droplets fall off onto his shoulders, and Peter watches him with a strange intensity he can’t shake.

“Patience is a virtue, baby boy.”

Peter’s breath hitches and he stares at Quentin a second too long, struggling to pull his eyes away from the way Quentin’s collarbones are accentuated under the warm light. He sets himself down on the bed, sat right by the pillow, and tries to will away the flush making its way to his cheeks as Quentin smirks.

“Do you really wanna know?”  
  
Shit.

Peter presses his lips together, his eyes burning a hole in the duvet as Quentin moves around the bed to the side he’s sat on. He’s pulled on the pair of jeans now, but Peter’s sure he’d rather him just be in a towel than...this.

There’s something innately hot about Quentin being shirtless in only jeans. Peter supposes it’s just normal sexual attraction, but the way his eyes are drawn to his collarbones and his jawline and the three freckles making a star on the left side of his chest makes him think it’s something more.

“I can give you a sneak peek.” He murmurs, too close now for Peter to pretend he doesn’t know what’s happening. His arms are barricading either side of the pillow, leaning until Peter’s forced into his back.

“I think you’ll enjoy it.” He says against Peter’s jaw, his breath fanning underneath and over his neck. Peter just lets out a shaky laugh, turned on and anxious all in one.

“We have a dinner reservation.” He breathes, even though there’s not really anywhere he’d rather be than in Quentin’s arms when he’s being so gentle and loving and looks like _that_.

He pulls back, face clean shaven and porcelain, his hair drying against his head. Peter leans up and kisses him, pulling back when he tries to deepen it with an amused smirk.

“Get ready.” 

Quentin just moans, leaning in again, only to be stopped by Peter’s hand. He widens his eyes and pushes softly at his shoulders, gesturing to the outfit.

“Later.” Quentin all but growls, his eyes dark. 

Peter just smiles, swallowing past the strangely placed lump in his throat. It’s all excitement, he tells himself, but he’s not sure he believes it.

*

“I think I’d go to Italy.” Peter says, twirling his fork in the pasta. Quentin’s cutting into a steak, asking Peter all sorts of questions, like it’s a game.

“European tour?”

Peter nods, mouth full of pasta, and chews. Quentin’s watching him fondly, stopping the cutting to drink his vodka and coke.

“I love Europe.” He says, swallowing. Quentin watches him intently, like him eating is the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. “When I was like fourteen I imagined having my first kiss on top of the Eiffel Tower with some french dude.”

Quentin laughs into his glass, eyebrows wiggling over the top of the rim.

“I don’t think that’ll happen, but I can give you something better.”

Peter just hums, setting his fork down. The plate’s over half empty, but he still feels bad leaving anything uneaten, despite how Quentin says that it really was only pennies for the meal. He’d paid, and Peter didn’t really have the place to argue too much - he was getting broker by the days the more he paid for an apartment he wasn’t living in.

“So, I-” Quentin starts just as Peter opens his mouth to speak. He smiles and gestures for him to continue, eyes crinkling at the way he sets his fork down. “I was thinking. You spend so much time at my apartment, and it really only gets lonelier each time you leave.”

Peter nods, that stupid lump rising in his throat again. He wants this, he really, really does, but his anxiety has always been terrified of change.

“So, why don’t you just move in with me? It’ll make it easier getting home, you won’t be so far away, and you won’t have to pay for an apartment you sleep in twice a week. Win win.”

Peter coughs in the back of his throat, nodding as Quentin subconsciously leans forward slightly. He looks incredible in the suit, but it’s warm in the restaurant, so he’d taken off the jacket and was left in a tight fitting white shirt that stretched when he moved. Now he’s sure the lump is there for another reason.

“I mean, I’m, yeah.” Peter breathes out, shaking his eyes away from Quentin’s biceps. “It’s, um, a big thing. But I want to.”

Quentin nods with a soft yeah, his lips turning upwards into a lopsided smile when Peter nods again, more set this time. He knows what he wants, and living with Quentin is exactly that.

“Yeah, yeah, I’d love that.”

“Okay.” Quentin laughs, his meal abandoned. He wants to lean over and kiss him right here and now, but knowing Peter, his shirt would get caught in the table, or he’d fall face down into a plate of pasta and embarrass himself. He settles for biting his lip and pushing the plate away from him, cocking his head as Quentin narrows his eyes.

“You ready to go?” He says, lower than before. He doesn’t know whether he wants to crawl over Quentin and rip his clothes off or sit with him and watch some random comedy film on Netflix, but he’d settle for both or either or. He just wants the comfort of sitting close enough to him to hear his heartbeat.

Almost immediately after they step out of the door, Quentin pulls Peter towards him by his waist and picks him up, the smaller man’s legs flailing as he does so.

“Quen!” He laughs, legs desperately clawing at his waist to gain leverage. “You - stop, I’m dizzy!”

Quentin just laughs, a giddy, deep laugh that makes the butterflies in Peter’s stomach turn to birds. He presses a kiss to his lips, again and again and again until his hands are pressing hard against Quentin’s smooth cheeks and he’s so close that the body warmth is halved between them.

“I wanna go home.” Peter murmurs, content in the fact that it’s now officially his home too.

And then his eyes widen and he swallows harshly, pulling back from where Quentin’s murmuring at the side of his lip.

“Quentin, wait.” He says, hands still nervously playing with a stray bit of hair running down the nape of Quentin’s neck. “Can I tell my Aunt about you?”

Quentin laughs, letting Peter’s legs fall from around his waist back to the floor. He keeps a steady arm around his waist as they make their way to the car, breaths coming out in clouded huffs.

“Of course you can, baby. I’d love to meet her.”

“Okay, but,” Peter swallows as Quentin opens the passenger seat door for him, his fingers lingering on his shoulders. “Can I tell her you’re my - you know. That you’re my boyfriend? Is that... I mean, is that what we’re-”

“Is that what we’re doing?” Quentin finishes for him, a small smile playing on his lips. Peter lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, and smiles back nervously. “Of course. I wouldn’t be asking you to move in with me if I didn’t think we were serious, dummy.”

Peter nods, setting himself in the car as Quentin jogs back to the drivers seat. He’s familiar enough with the car now that he can turn the heat on instantly, though he’d be damned if he had to drive it anywhere.

When Quentin slides in, his face is warm and soft, a gentle smile playing at his lips. He leans a hand across to rub at Peter’s knee, his grip steady and strong.

“Home?” Quentin says, and Peter grins.

Home.


	9. the other side of paradise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this work isn’t starker. anything quentin implies is purely quentin being quentin

“Pretty, pretty.” Quentin murmurs, closing the door behind them while Peter giggles and stretches his back. He looks like a giddy schoolgirl, all doe eyed and blown pupils sticking out from a mile away.

The apartment’s fairly cold, considering it’s January and the heating hadn’t been on, but it didn’t really make a difference when Quentin promised to have him sweating in under ten minutes. Peter’s cheeks burn at the thought, still drunk off the excitement of what a day today has been.

“I can’t believe it.” He breathes, pulling Quentin down with him as they clumsily stumble their way to the bed. He falls over him with a quiet sound, his leg catching just in time to stop it crushing Peter’s thigh. “My very own boyfriend, perfect and amazing and gorgeous and-”

Quentin shushes him with a kiss, but Peter can feel the smile against his lips. His eyes are gentle, fluttering in the dim light as Peter leans back on his elbows, throwing his sweater somewhere off to the left.

He’s a lot more comfortable being in bed with Quentin now than he had been originally. The thought of being naked in front of him doesn’t make his cheeks burn violently with anxiety, but softly with excitement and a piece of shy that will never leave him. Quentin says it’s endearing, and Peter’s slowly learning to live with it.

“The perfect day.” He laughs again, too giddy to hold himself up. “Moving in with you _and_ starting a new internship. It’s crazy.”

The fingers that had been playing at his waistband stop, and Peter looks down to see Quentin’s blue eyes staring back at him. They’re still dark and blown, but he looks like he’s going to bite through his own tongue if his jaw hardens anymore.

Peter cocks his head with a small _what?_ , leaning up on his elbows. It doesn’t seem to make a difference, though, because Quentin’s still staring, still unmoving, still tensing.

“You’re taking it?” He says finally, pulling his fingers away completely. “I thought we’d talk about it.”

“Talk about what?” Peter sits up fully, his head still slightly cocked to the right. “This is the biggest opportunity in my career right now, and as an intern, I’m going to take anything I can get.”

“Except mine.”

Peter just rolls his eyes, blowing out all the air in his lungs. Quentin’s sat up, too, and all of a sudden his jeans feel too uncomfortable at his ankles, like the air’s rapidly warming around them even though they haven’t done anything.

“You know this is different, Quen.”

Quentin’s already nodding, his jaw setting against where it meets his ears, and Peter inwardly sighs. Looks like whatever surprise he’d had lined up for him had gone to shit.

“I do.” Quentin nods. “I also know that personal internship is just another word for private whore.”

Peter jolts. It’s almost like he’d been expecting Quentin to say something like that, something so stupid and ludicrous that he could twist it to make sense. He always could.

“It’s not like that.” He says, the hurt dripping through every word. “Why would I want that?”

“You might not. But he sure does.”

Peter thinks of Tony Stark, of the gentle gestures, of the way his eyes lit up talking about science, of the way he’d been rescued from Afghanistan when Peter had been only five, a scared little child running from the world into the magazines that Tony had had an article in. Ben kept them for him every time he found them, and Peter had grown up with having Tony as a comfort blanket, even though the older man may never know it.

He thinks of Quentin, of doing the things he’s done with him, but with Tony, and almost gags.

The intimacy of Peter being a child in love with someone who could have very well been in a superhero in his eyes, in the ways he’s shared with Quentin makes his skin crawl. He’d clung to Tony Stark like a safety blanket, and if he let himself think hard enough, he still did.

“-takes what he wants. Why would you say no?”

Peter realises Quentin’s been talking with a start and blinks up at him, his mind automatically filling in the blanks. The worst part is that Quentin looks serious, like he’s just caught Peter doing exactly what he’s accusing him of wanting - it makes the sick and the hurt and the aching run deeper, and he can’t keep it inside any longer. 

“Because _you’re_ my boyfriend.” He spits, fully sat straight now. Any arousal from before has gone, and he glares at the way Quentin sits, like he’d planned this whole conversation in his head. “Because Tony Stark is my boss, my mentor, whatever the fuck you want to call it. Because infidelity wouldn’t even cross my _mind_ when you’re here.”

Quentin just scoffs, and that hurts. He’d been expecting the older man’s features to soften, for him to step back and recognise that Peter was in it for the long game, that he would never act on sexual attraction when he was with Quentin.

Peter wonders if it’s all just deep rooted jealousy. After all, Tony basically pulled the plug on the Retro Framing project; of course Quentin’d be mad, but he’d also feel jealous that Tony had the range to do so.

Quentin’s about to speak, but Peter’s so tired of him interrupting and of him never letting listening to reason that he’s speaking before he can stop himself, words tumbling out like vomit until he can’t catch them anymore.

“You’re jealous, but why? Quen, I love _you_.” He presses, his hands gently covering Quentin’s. “I knew Tony when I was tiny - I’m not interested in him. I know it’s difficult, but I promise-”

“I’m not jealous.” 

_Again_ with the interrupting. Again with the defensiveness. Like a circle that keeps going round and round and round with nothing to break it up.

“He’s got all the power, I get it. I know it might be difficult, but I need this. I do.”

Quentin’s face remains unchanged, but his jaw is still tightening and if Peter listens hard enough he’d probably be able to hear teeth grinding together like they did sometimes in his sleep. He drops Quentin’s hands to the bed and follows suit with his own, his body suddenly exhausted.

“I get you’re mad at him. He’s getting in your limelight, I _get_ it-”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Peter presses on, too riled to stop now they’ve started. There’s nothing he wants more to than to go to sleep with Quentin and continue this conversation in the morning, but he knows as soon as he stops that he’ll never get the chance again.

“He’s the boss even though you know more about CGI than he does. It’s all-”

“ _Peter._ ” Another warning he ignores.

“He pulled the plug on the Retro Framing project. You don’t want him to-”

Peter’s words are swallowed by air as his head snaps sideways, his body going cold all over as it does. The pain doesn’t blossom all at once, but takes a while, like holding a hand over a candle, slow enough that his lagging brain catches up within a few seconds.

“What the fuck?” He says, meaning for it to bite but realising he’s on the verge of tears when he speaks. He’s too in shock to do anything but stare at Quentin’s unreadable expression and hold a hand against the red print on his cheek.

That’s another thing Quentin does; holds his emotions like an unreachable book. He can’t read him half the time, but Quentin’ll read him in seconds. He wonders why the older man can’t see the pure horror and pain written all over his features, clear as day.

Instead he shakes his head, swings his legs back over the bed, and grabs his coat too harshly, shaking it like he’s scared of spiders crawling on it.

“Don’t wait up.” He says, and then he’s gone.

Peter hears the front door slam a few moments later, but he’s too busy staring at the end of the bed to notice. The pain doesn’t even hurt anymore, and the tears have dried, till all he’s doing is breathing in and out and in and out, shaky and stuttery but at least he’s still breathing, right?

His breath hitches and then the tears come, his body working its way into an anxiety attack. He subconsciously flaps his right hand on the bed, like he always did when he woke up from anxiety induced nightmares, waiting for Quentin to reach a hand out and clasp it over his own to ground him and stop the panic.

But Quentin’s not here.

Still shaking, still crying, Peter crawls to his side of the bed and tries to force his body to relax down. It doesn’t work, but at least if he feels faint, he’s already down.

The room’s quiet and dark, the emptiness of Quentin not being here finally setting in. _This is what it’ll feel like_ , Peter thinks with a scowl, _when he’s at work and I’m at home._

Home.

“Oh, shit.” Peter whispers, but it breaks the silence of the apartment too harshly and he cringes back from the intensity of it.

How is he supposed to stay home after that? How is he supposed to wake here in the morning and go to work with Quentin and meet Tony Stark and come home and have everything be all fine and dandy?

How is he supposed to sleep in the same bed of a man who’s just slapped him?

Peter shakes his head and swallows harshly, scrubbing at his eyes not as gently as he’d like. He knew Quentin had a short temper, he knew the very mention of Tony Stark pissed him off, and he _still_ pushed the conversation on him when he was clearly trying to guide it a different way.

He’s so fucking stupid.

He pulls his knees up to his chest, trying to stop the tears that don’t seem to be ending. His phone’s still on the kitchen table, and he needs it, desperately. How else is Quentin gonna come home?

“Stop crying.” He mumbles, hands rubbing up and down his face. His cheek still stings, because Quentin wore a ring on his right hand, and the metal had caught him just on the cheekbone. “Stop crying, idiot, stop it.”

He shakes his head, his breathing still rattling through his chest. The carpeted floor feels cold when he gingerly gets to his feet, going straight for the window. Quentin’s new plant is sat on the left, specially placed so the light hits it in the daytime.

Quentin’s car’s gone when he looks out. He’d been expecting it, but it doesn’t stop the agonising ache in his heart from growing larger.

The apartment’s too big, too quiet, too empty. Peter’s panicked breathing echoes off the walls, his sniffles too loud to his own ears that it starts to hurt.

His phone’s lying just where he left it, but there’s something gleaming off the moonlight streaming through the living room window, the moon low enough that Quentin’s tall apartment feels like it’s floating halfway between the earth and space. Peter shakes his head and grabs the object, dangling it off the chain on his index finger, ignoring the way the feeling of floating in the apartment feels so familiar.

It’s a small silver key, the head of it engraved with _505_. Quentin’s apartment number.

Peter curses, a new wave of hurt washing through him and stringing out tears he thought had dried. No wonder Quentin had been so excited when they’d left - he’d been planning tonight for however long, and Peter had ruined it.

He grabs the phone, ignoring how blurry the screen looks through his teary eyes, and types in Quentin’s birthday, trying not to be hurt at the fact that there’s no notifications in the bar. His heart aches for Ned, for MJ, his only two friends who have yet to meet, but whom he loves so much he feels like it’s too much for him to hold.

And he thinks of Quentin, fingers shaking as he starts typing, too panicked and upset to care whether he’s making sense. He thinks of Quentin, of his personality, of the way he is, of the way he looks and of the man Peter fell in love with. Because, no matter what Quentin does, or how angry he becomes, Peter had loved him from the very day they met, and would hold his hands out in handcuffs just to stay with him for the rest of his life.

Maybe it’s possessive. Maybe he’s so needy and touch starved that the moment Quentin takes his hands off him he feels light headed, feels like his world’s crashing down around him. Even now, crying and shaking in the middle of their kitchen, his body aches for Quentin’s arms around him, of his body warmth enveloping him in whatever way he gives it.

Peter presses send and tries to read through the message again, his head going slightly dizzy with the intensity of burning through tears. He rubs at his eyes again, frustrated and angry, and sets the phone down on the counter.

_please comehkme. comehome. please_

*

When Peter wakes, Quentin’s lying next to him.

He’s too far to comfortably touch, because both of them are sleeping at the very edges of the bed. The relief that floods throughout his body is welcome, though, and he stares at him until his eyes burn.

Quentin’s asleep. He can tell by the quiet little whistle sound he makes, by his gentle breathing, by the way his fingers twitch slightly from where they’re curled by his chest.

Peter inhales. And then exhales. It sounds so loud that he’s afraid of waking Quentin up by simply breathing, so he turns to the window, the dim light of the rising sun illuminating the coat Quentin had taken with him last night. It’s at the end of the bed, and Peter leans closer to see a half empty packet of cigarettes sticking out from the pocket, the packaging barely ripped off it.

Quentin didn’t smoke. Either Peter stressed him out so much he forced him to find something else to distract his anger into or... he doesn’t want to think about the other option.

_It’s only a slap_ , he tells himself as he gingerly steps out of bed, purposely making his breathing soft so he doesn’t wake Quentin up.

Only a slap, he tells himself as he opens the room as slowly as he can, creeping down the hallway to the bathroom no one ever used because why would you when you have an en suite? Never mind the fact that said en suite makes a noise when you switch the light on, and the though of seeing Quentin makes his body shake, even though he knows there’s no way around it.

A slap. That’s it.

He touches his cheek warily, fingers ghosting over the small, blueish bruise on his cheekbone. It’s from the ring, and it doesn’t even hurt that much, but Peter had always bruised like a peach.

Swallowing harshly, he pushes his hair back from his forehead and twists the faucet on. The water is too cold for the morning, but it lets him focus on something other than the bruise on his cheek.

How is he going to pass this off? He knows it’s not that big of a deal, but the bruise is still there, and he needs something to explain why it’s so perfectly placed on his cheekbone. He was clumsy, sure, but his coworkers, who barely even knew him, didn’t know that. Would saying he fell into a table be plausible?

He’s going to have to hide it from Ned when they meet for lunch, and from Brad, and-

_Shit_.

He’s meeting Tony fucking Stark today. He’s going to walk into Stark Industries, meet Tony Stark, meet every other coworker he’s basically drooled over since he was fourteen, start the most important section of his life so far, and he’s doing it all with a bruise on his cheek.

_Stop being stupid, Parker. It’s barely noticeable._

He takes a shaky breath and runs his mouth under the water, gargling the nausea from his body. Half of his brain screams at him to calm down, while the other half is running itself in circles trying to get him to cancel.

There’s no way he’s cancelling. He’ll have to think of an excuse.

He’s too busy racking his brain inside and out for an excuse that he doesn’t notice Quentin leaning against the kitchen counter until he’s barely four feet from him. He jerks back on instinct, not missing the way the older man’s head tilts.

“Morning.”

Peter swallows. _Morning?_

He just nods, afraid that if he speaks his voice’ll shake and he’ll start crying.

“I thought you wanted me home.”

It’s not a question. It comes out smug, like he’s waiting for Peter’s front to falter. All he wants is to throw himself forward and sob into his shoulder, but he subconsciously presses on the bruise, and the pain pushes his thoughts away.

“I waited up for three hours.” He says, tight and too high pitched.

He hadn’t slept until almost two in the morning, and that had only been because he’d exhausted himself from crying. The read receipt hadn’t changed, and Peter didn’t see a typing icon once.

“I was busy.” He replies, still as easy as before. He’s holding a mug of coffee, the steam rising into his nostrils as Peter opens the curtains in the living room. He’s too afraid to turn back to him, so he keeps his eyes on the city, imagining swinging his way through the buildings, distracting himself from the fact that this is very real.

He’s really here. Quentin’s really behind him, sipping on his coffee, his breathing steady and gentle. The bruise is really on his face, hurting as he touches it again.

“Too busy to let me know you weren’t dead?”

“You pissed me off.”

“I deserve to know you aren’t dead.” Peter cries, his voice too loud for the time of morning. Quentin just leans back, like he’d been expecting the shouting. “I deserve to sleep at night knowing you haven’t died in a car accident because who knows what you drank last night!”

Quentin’s eyebrow quirks, like he finds the whole situation indescribably amusing. It’s still too early, but it’ll always be too late, and he doesn’t know whether to insist on talking to someone who can’t seem to understand the root of his anxiety.

“I text you twenty times and you didn’t even read them, I thought-” He chokes on the words, hyperventilating before he can stop it. Quentin puts the mug down, the quirk gone.

“I thought you were dead.” He breathes, and then he’s crying and choking on air, barely able to fill his lungs partly. Quentin’s by his side at a second, one hand stroking the cheekbone that isn’t bruised, the other holding gently to his hand.

“Sh, it’s alright, I’m okay.” He murmurs, his lips soft against Peter’s hair when he leans in. He’s not even sure what he’s more upset about - the slap, or the fact that Quentin wouldn’t answer him. “Hey, calm down, it’s alright. You just aggravated me, it’s okay.”

He’s still murmuring, but Peter can barely hear him, his words not helping to cease the panic attack at all. It’s all his fault Quentin stormed off. He hadn’t been right to drive. If he’d gotten into an accident, it would have been entirely on Peter’s shoulders. His brain won’t stop screaming _manslaughter_ , and he falters, his legs buckling under the pressure wracking through his body.

His anxiety has never been so severe. He hasn’t had a panic attack for a good two years, yet here he is, on his knees, clutching at his chest because he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t -

“Hey.” Quentin’s voice. It’s strong and steady, like his eyes when they catch Peter’s. “Calm. Down. You’re okay.”

Peter nods, but he still feels like he’s going to die. It’s the internship as well, he realises with a start. If he fucks this up, he doesn’t know how he’ll ever work in Stark Industries again, how he’ll ever get a proper job in the only place he’s wanted to work since he was twelve.

“Peter.” It sounds frustrated now, and he lets out a shaky breath, stuttering moans through his mouth as his lungs try to inflate. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”

Does Quentin think he doesn’t know that? He’s trying. He’s breathing through his nose, out through his mouth, hands trembling. Panic attacks aren’t new to him, but the oxymoron of the same hands that have bruised him being soft against his hands, is.

Eventually the panic subsides, and he comes back to earth to see Quentin staring at him, his eyes burning with curiosity and concern. He looks like he wants to ask a billion questions, but he settles for wrapping his arms around Peter’s exhausted body, lips gentle against the curl of hair by his ear lobe.

“I’m sorry.” Peter murmurs, tears springing in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” 

“I know.” Quentin whispers back, and it’s gentle and soft and the relief is so overwhelming that it brings goosebumps to the skin covering his skinny arms. “It’s alright, I know. It’s alright.”

Peter nods, too choked to say anything, and they sit together, in the middle of the living room, the rising sun making the tint grow orange. It’s warm, even though Peter flinches and plays it off with a shudder when Quentin leans back to kiss him on the forehead.

It’s so relaxing that Peter doesn’t even flinch when Quentin’s shoulder accidentally bumps into his bruise. It doesn’t really matter, anyway, it’s not like it hurts.

And really, it doesn’t hurt. Really.


	10. shake for no reason at all

### “Ah, Mr. Parker!”

Peter looks up from his watch to see Tony walking towards him at a minute to one exactly. When they’d first met, he’d been in a suit, but he’s wearing a dirty top now and jeans with what looks like old paint splatters on them.

“Early. I like it.” He says, and greets Peter with an outstretched hand. Peter takes a moment to look warily down the hall to where he knows Quentin’s working, and takes Tony’s hand.

Quentin doesn’t even know he’s here. They hadn’t spoken much this morning about the internship, and the ride had been silent for the most part. He wants to be out of here as quickly as possible, so shakes Tony’s hand and follows him happily when he starts leading them to a little door on the right, dipping down in flights upon flights of stairs.

“I hope you don’t mind stairs.” He jokes, and he sounds slightly out of breath. “The elevator doesn’t get down here. It’s only a couple flights.”

A couple flights in Tony’s book, apparently, is six lots of stairs and then a corridor that doesn’t seem to end. Peter’s breathing is laboured by the time they get there, but Tony just pats him on the back and tells him he’ll get used to it.

Peter supposes he’ll have to, not that he minds much at all. The room that the corridor opens into is so much bigger than he’d originally thought, stretching larger than two departments put together, work benches in clusters and organised forms alike, spreading from three of the walls and joining in the middle.

There’s a large glowing light Peter instantly recognises as the arc reactor, and he can’t even help it as he leaps forward, his eyes wide, hands hovering in front of him as he steps closer. It’s so bright, so much more so in person than in pictures, and so, so large, too. It’s not developed yet, and half of it is still covered, but it’s so beautiful and incredible that Peter thinks he might cry.

“Buck!” Peter hears behind him, and he tears his eyes away from the reactor just quickly enough to see Bucky Barnes standing next to Tony, his face tired, a splatter of dirt on his jawline.

Peter’s jaw drops open at his arm, too amazed to even speak.

Instead of a human, fleshy left arm, Bucky has an incredibly agile, complete metal arm, detailed intricately and fully flexible. It’s one of Tony Stark’s greatest manufactures, and he’d appointed Bucky head of prosthetics when he’d asked, because who else could know how to treat injured patients better than someone who’d gone through the artificial limb lingo?

“This is Peter.” Tony says, and Peter snaps back into it, not missing the way Bucky immediately grabs hold of his arm, pulling it towards his body like he’ll curl around it just to stop Peter looking.

“Hi.” He says, offering a hand. “I’m incredibly intrigued by your work, and it’s amazing to meet you in person. Your arm is so cool.”

He winces. It sounds childish, but apparently it’s just what Bucky needed, because he lets go of the arm and holds it out to shake Peter’s, the cool metal of it smooth against his hand. He smiles apologetically, a dimple denting the right side of his cheek, and heads across the lab to a floor to ceiling compartment full of tools.

Peter swallows again and follows Tony through the lab to a small room at the end, a sign reading ‘ _don’t come in unless something’s on fire_ ’ hung against the door knob.

It’s messy in an organised way, the clutter on the desk top in piles that make sense when he looks closer. From paperwork, tools and nails, everything is together with its respective partners. The oil and grease that inevitably comes with engineering is smeared in stains on the table, paint and god knows what else etching its way onto every surface.

“Where is it?” Tony mumbles to himself, flicking through drawers till he finds a sleek StarkPad, dressed in a dirty grey pocket type cover. Peter almost laughs - it’s such an old man thing to have.

“Aha!” He says, triumphant and so loud that Peter winces. Maybe the voice is just echoing off the walls, considering they’re not that decorated. That’s what he’ll tell himself when Tony eyes him warily, anyway.

“So, I have a business to run. I can’t be dealing with children running around down here messing everything up.” Peter swallows and nods along, hoping it’s at all the right places. “But you, Mr. Parker, you know a lot more than you think you do.”

He pulls out another sheet of paper, handing it to Peter from where he’s sat on the desk. Peter takes it, silently begging the waver in his hands to stop, and eyes the blueprints warily.

It’s his tenth grade science project, a type of adhesive mimicking the strength of a spiders web. It was a stupid idea, and it would never work, but Mr. Harrington had adored it so much he gave him top grades _and_ kept it in his office. Peter hasn’t even _thought_ about it in years.

“Did you ever make a prototype?”

Peter shakes his head. Tony’s still watching his copy of the blueprints, turning it around and upside down and looking at it from every angle until Peter finally speaks up.

“It wouldn’t work.” He says. “It’s impossible. The glue wasn’t strong enough, couldn’t even carry human weight.”

“I don’t want to carry human weight. Not yet.” Tony says with a small smile, pushing the pair of reading glasses further up his nose. “It might be implausible, but not impossible. It’s just take a long time.”

He shakes his head, jumping down from the desk until he’s standing right next to Peter.

Shit. He hasn’t even sat down. How awkward must he look right now?

Tony doesn’t seem to mind though. He rises only two inches or so taller than Peter, his eyes drooping with eye bags. He looks like he’s worked all night long and doesn’t plan on slowing down.

“No. I want to turn your project into the next line of adhesives, capable of holding even polar opposite forces together.” He gives Peter a weird look that he can’t read, and continues, taking the blueprints from his hand. “I want you to get started with Shuri down the hall. She’s about your age. Knows anything and everything you need to make these calculations correct.”

Peter winces. His science had been sloppy when he was a teenager.

“So?” Tony says, and Peter jumps, realising he’s been staring at the blueprints on the table for far too long. “Are you ready to begin to make a difference?”

Peter smiles, letting his mouth fall into a grin when Tony’s eyes soften. When he walks towards the door, his step’s lighter, like the anxiety’s shaking itself off his shoulders. It’s refreshing and incredible, so amazing that he shivers and follows Tony too closely down the hall.

“Get ready, Mr. Parker.” He says as they approach a lab door, smaller than the first, occupied by one small girl with dark braids. “I have a feeling you’re gonna change things.”

*

Peter’s anxiety manifests in weird ways. Sometimes he’s terrified of ordering a coffee, sometimes he feels sick about the fact that he’s gonna have to get the subway in the morning. Other times, like right now, he feels like he’s going to choke just because Quentin looked at him the wrong way.

It’s stupid. He’s his _boyfriend_ , how can his mind not tell the difference between danger?

He loves Quentin, really he does. He’s willing to do anything for him, but it doesn’t seem like his body agrees with him most of the time.

“Relax.” Quentin murmurs as Peter’s body seizes up again, his stomach turning so violently it feels like it’s twisting over itself.

He’s sat between Quentin’s legs, his body rolling as the older man digs his thumbs into his shoulders. There’s so much pent up there that it aches, his head loose even as his body tenses again.

It’s so stupid that he feels angry, so angry that he could just punch himself, because he shouldn’t be so scared, he shouldn’t be reacting like this when his boyfriend touches him.

“Sh, Pete.” He says again, quiet in the dim light of the open room. “I told you he’d make you tense.”

Peter bites back a sigh. Ever since they got home, Quentin hadn’t stopped telling him how much Tony Stark wound his employees up, that he abused them and worked them dry, that the rigidness of Peter’s stance came from being next to Tony all day.

Peter thinks he’s rather believe that than listen to the way his heart’s telling him that he’s terrified of Quentin raising a hand to him again.

“I had fun.”

“I’m sure you did.” Quentin says without missing a beat, a bite barely hidden in his voice.

“It will never be like that.” Peter says, shaking Quentin’s hands off him. His throat’s suddenly dry, too dry to speak, so he makes towards a glass of water, trying to ignore the prickling at the back of his neck when Quentin follows.

He follows him everywhere now. It’s not like Peter minds - he loves spending time with him. It just gets suffocating, having to watch his every step all the time.

“You don’t know that.” He says matter-o-factly and Peter wants to scream.

They’ve had this conversation a thousand times in the last couple days, and each one ends the same - with Quentin huffing and going silent and Peter crawling back on his knees to apologise.

Maybe it should make his skin crawl the way Quentin requests apologies in the form of blowjobs, but it doesn’t really matter.

“I’d know it more if you trusted me.” He bites back, but it’s under his breath, too quiet for Quentin to hear anything other than a breath of words strung together.

“What did you say?”

Peter freezes.

 _Shit_.

He stops in his tracks, literally. His hand, holding a glass under the running tap is getting soaked because he’s too afraid to pull it away. He bites on his tongue and tries to keep his breathing steady and low.

“What did you say?” Quentin repeats and it’s quieter, harsher. His very tone makes Peter’s hands start to shake, and he quickly turns off the faucet and puts the glass to the side before Quentin can notice. He hates it when Peter shakes.

Fuck his body’s flight or fight response - he’s standing like a deer in headlights, too scared to turn but even more scared to run, not able to do anything when Quentin grabs him by the upper arm and turns him round.

“What the fuck did you say, Peter?” He seethes, and Peter can see his jaw tightening.

Quentin has anger issues, he knows, but it doesn’t help when he tells his body that. _This is normal_ , he screams, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s still frozen, still choking, still scared.

“I-I didn’t say anything.” He whispers, cursing the way his voice wavers out in the tiny volume. Quentin’s grip isn’t tightening, his large hands not far away from wrapping around his whole upper arm.

“Do you think I’m fucking dumb?”

“Wha- No, no, I didn’t say that.” Peter says, his breathing speeding up. Quentin likes to put words in his mouth, twist it to make it fit whatever he wants. He’s a master illusionist and will twist the room to read whatever he wants it to read. It’d be a lot easier if Peter would just keep his mouth shut.

But of course, he’s a Parker. His father’s big mouth got him killed, and then his mother’s. He’ll be damned if he ends up the same.

“Do you think I don’t know what someone like Tony Stark wants? What someone like _you_ wants?”

Peter jolts at that. He’d thought they’d agreed on the fact that Peter’s eyes would never stray from Quentin.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He says, and his voice breaks on that. It makes him sound that much smaller, that much younger, that much dumber.

“You’re not stupid, Peter.” Quentin says, and his hands are so tight now that Peter can feel the coldness of pain seeping down through his arm. “Figure it out.”

“You’re hurting me.” Is all he says, wiggling to free Quentin’s hands from him.

But Quentin doesn’t move. In fact, he tightens his grip even more, as if it were possible, making Peter gasp and arch his back, wiggling as much as possible to free himself.

Bad move.

“You think a little slut like you would say no? You think a man like Tony Stark would listen to your _no_?”

Peter’s on the verge of tears, his thrashing getting more and more frantic as Quentin leans in and grips so hard Peter feels like the blood’s completely stopped running to his fingers. They’re numb, and he can’t move them, but he can’t tell if it’s loss of blood of pure fear.

“Stop it.” He cries, too quiet, too weak. “Please let go.”

“You think anyone would listen to your no?” He seethes, and then his voice drops off, his grip loosening almost instantaneously. He lets go of Peter’s arm and brings his right hand to his cheek, wiping gently at a stray tear that escaped in the struggle. “You’re too pretty, Peter. No one would listen.”

Peter doesn’t know why he does it. It’s a stupid, thoughtless, irrevocably idiotic move. He doesn’t even think about it, too focused on creating distance between him and Quentin.

He pushes back, all of his strength only enough to force Quentin a few steps backwards, leaping left and out of the way for Quentin to reach him without moving.

As he stumbles, his cheek catches on the corner of a cupboard, his hands bracing against the counter to stop himself falling into it. He brings a hand to gingerly touch the wound, a tiny little scratch that Peter can’t even see properly from here. He doesn’t look up for a long time, though, and Peter’s stupid body is too scared to move.

When he does look up, Peter wants to die right there and then.

His eyes are so narrow it’s like the dark irises are engulfing them, his jaw so tight it looks like his teeth’ll grind away. He has one hand to his cheek still as he pushes off the counter, too slow to shock Peter’s adrenaline into running.

What the fuck has he done now?

“I don’t think there was any need for that.” Quentin says, stalking like he’s a lion and Peter’s a gazelle. Except a gazelle would have probably ran for its life, whereas it seems like Peter himself can’t move a muscle. “Was there?”

Shaking like a leaf, he sucks in a breath, catching it in his throat as Quentin reaches barely a foot away from him. He suddenly looks ten feet tall, and Peter wonders how he hadn’t noticed it before.

“Was there?” He suddenly shouts and Peter flinches so violently he knocks a vase to the floor. He hadn’t even noticed his body had curled away until he pulls his hands away from guarding his face, eyes focussed on the shattered glass vase in a hundred pieces on the kitchen floor.

Quentin doesn’t say anything, so Peter gingerly pulls his eyes away from the vase till he can catch sight of the older man’s face. His eyes are staring directly at Peter’s, and he flinches again before looking at him.

Not at his eyes, though. He avoids his eyes like if he looks at them he’ll burst into flames.

“I’m sorry, I-” He starts, sick to his stomach. He genuinely might turn to the side and throw up all over the glass if Quentin doesn’t stop staring at him like he’s just waiting for him to trip up. “I’ll clean it up, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Quentin just nods, gesturing to the broken glass.

“Clean it up.”

It takes a minute for it to settle in Peter’s brain before he understands what Quentin means.

The taller man turns towards the drawer and pulls out a small sandwich bag, handing it to Peter silently. It’s too quiet, besides Peter’s laboured breathing, so quiet that he can’t focus on anything else.

“Clean it up.” He says again, and Peter takes the hint. He drops to his knees immediately, fumbling with the piece of glass in his hand and shoving them into the sandwich bag, occasionally snapping his head up and back down immediately just to see if Quentin’s still there.

He always is, watching, waiting.

Waiting for something to happen.

It does, inevitably. Peter’s grabbing pieces of glass too quickly, his brain on complete overdrive, that he grabs a larger, sharper piece and immediately cuts into his palm. He drops all the pieces with a yell, tears springing to his eyes at the pain.

It’s not that deep, but his body is so hypersensitive because Quentin’s near him that it hurts that much more.

“Oh dear.” Quentin sighs in fake concern, his tone so sarcastic that it just makes Peter cry harder. “An eye for an eye.”

The shove. The little cut. It’s just payback.

Despite the pain in his hand, he keeps picking up the glass, flinching as it nicks at his fingertips. It’s slicing them to pieces but he can’t stop, not while Quentin’s watching him and begging him to fuck up. He’s down to the tiny pieces when Quentin stops him, Peter’s blood now staining the tiled floor and all the glass.

“That’s enough.” He murmurs and pulls Peter to his feet by his wrists, one thumb pressing into the large gash in his left hand. Peter hisses and tries to pull back, but it just makes the grip tighten. “Let me see.”

He turns Peter’s hands over, the blood from his palm trickling down to his wrist. His fingertips are spilling blood, because there’s more of them and they’re tiny, coating his fingers and staining Quentin’s too.

“Silly boy.” He says, too light for it to sound concerned. “How did you ever live alone?”

Peter doesn’t speak, half because he’s crying and half because he doesn’t know either. He was so stupid, couldn’t even protect himself in front of the man he loved the most. How was he supposed to protect himself if someone robbed him when he couldn’t even move away from Quentin’s grip?

He lets Quentin drag him to their en suite, his toes catching as he stumbles to keep up. The grip isn’t tight on his wrist, but his hands are throbbing and he’s trying so hard to stop the tears that he’s choking on every breath.

“Baby, baby.” Quentin mumbles as they reach the sink. He starts to pat the blood away, gentle as he’s ever been. “Getting yourself in so much trouble.”

Peter’s too busy trying not to throw up to answer Quentin. He can’t even remember why they were fighting anymore, just that his hands hurt and Quentin’s easing the pain.

When the bleeding’s stopped, he grabs a bandage from underneath the sink, murmuring sweet nothings as he wraps it around Peter’s hand. It wouldn’t be ideal to conceal Peter’s fingers, but they’re bleeding and aching, so he puts large plasters over each of them, flesh coloured so that if Peter unfocusses his eyes, he can pretend they’re not there.

“It’s alright.” Quentin soothes as Peter’s hiccuping starts again. He puts a gentle hand to his cheek, and Peter leans in, letting him stroke away the tears gently. Quentin’s so soft, so gentle, that Peter forgets all about the bruising on his arm.

It feels weird to walk, Peter’s hands curled in on himself. Quentin’s strong and steady next to him, gently guiding him to the bed like nothing ever happened.

Maybe it didn’t. Peter can’t even remember why, or if, they were fighting, so he doesn’t see any reason as to why he flinches when Quentin leans over him to grab his phone.

There’s a text message on it, and Peter’s stomach drops.

“Seven tomorrow morning?” Quentin reads, his eyebrows drawn together. “When did you get Tony Stark’s number?”

Peter doesn’t answer, his eyes wide, body frozen like Quentin’s pointing a gun to his head.

“Whatever.” He smiles and kisses Peter on the forehead, typing something out before locking the phone in the drawer.

Peter doesn’t know what the message says. It’s not like he can answer, anyway, because his stupid touch screen phone won’t react to plastered hands. Besides, it’d hurt too much to hold it anyway, what with the gash on his palm.

“Sweetheart.” Quentin whispers and turns to face Peter, gently manoeuvring him so his back is against the older man’s chest. “Go to sleep.”

It sounds like an easy feat, but with his body trembling for absolutely no reason, he can’t even close his eyes without seeing visions of Quentin’s head turned to the side, a hand holding a gun in front of him, straight into Peter’s head. He’s so terrified that he turns away from him and keeps his eyes wide open, barely able to control the hyperventilating.

When Quentin’s breathing evens out, Peter tries to match it, forcing the sleep to come to his body. It doesn’t come easily, even though he’s exhausted. 

When his eyes eventually fall closed, he dreams of broken glass and blood and bruising in the middle of a field full of gently swaying plants.

He wakes up crying.


	11. in my imagination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shortish chapter. my apologies <3

Peter turns with a groan, rubbing at his eyes. He’s so tired, the puffiness of crying and sleep deprivation weighing his eyes down as he checks the time.

Nine A.M.

He sniffs and rolls back onto his back, eyes closed as he relishes in the fact that the bed is warm and empty and-

 _Fuck_.

He jolts upwards, basically throwing himself out of bed. He rushes to the kitchen where he can smell Quentin cooking something, practically tripping over himself as he lurches through the doorway.

“I’m late.” He says, breath catching in his throat. “I’m late, I’m late, shit, can you drive me? I’m late, I need to-”

“Peter.” Quentin says and Peter stops in his tracks. He doesn’t know what it is about the way Quentin speaks, but he can’t move even if he wanted to, like his feet are stuck to the floor with glue. “You’re not going to work today.”

Peter’s jaw drops open. Is it a Saturday already? Has he lost that much time? He could have sworn it was mid week, but then again, he doesn’t exactly have a track record for certainties in his own mind.

“Called in sick last night.” He says easily, flipping a piece of bacon over. It sizzles and spits, but Quentin doesn’t move, just looks back up at Peter with a gentle smile.

“Why did I do that?” He asks, looking down at his plastered fingers.

“You didn’t. I did.” Quentin says, too cheery. Peter can’t miss a day of work, not on his second day.

“Quentin I-I can’t miss today.” He stutters, fully intent on spinning around and getting dressed in two minutes flat. He can just say the subway was late. And his phone died.

But he doesn’t move. He stands there and trembles, his legs too weak to stand properly, faltering under Quentin’s gaze.

“I’m going to work.” He says and takes a step backwards. Quentin raises an eyebrow and he instantly stops, his eyes wide and never leaving Quentin’s face, waiting for his expression to change.

“Who needs work?” He says, walking forward with a small smile on his face. “Come here, baby.”

Peter breathes out all the air in his lungs, juddering the exhale into the open when Quentin steps closer. He's cocking an eyebrow, waiting for Peter to step into the hug he's opening himself for.

"I need to go to work, Quen." He says, but it's barely above a whisper.

There's a sharp pain in his right foot suddenly and he yelps, jumping away from the glass that's still shattered into dusty pieces on the kitchen floor. It hadn't grazed him too harshly, but Quentin still smirks, like it's karma.

It feels like karma, at least. Quentin wants to punish him and he's doing it all without raising a single finger.

"Please take me to work." He whines, voice wavering on the edge of tears. 

Damn the fact that Peter's twenty years old and can't drive a fucking car. He doesn't even know which is better - bunking off work or turning up three hours late.

"I'll take the subway." Peter grumbles and turns to the bedroom. He doesn't get very far, because Quentin's hand wraps around his wrist, squeezing just tight enough that it makes Peter hiss and stop.

"I don't think so." He murmurs, pulling Peter so his back's pressed flush against his chest. "I've got a surprise for you."

"Can't we just do it later?" He pleads, panicking at the feeling of Quentin towering around him. He's so big and Peter's so small, so tiny that he just envelops around him, suffocating him till he cant do anything but squirm and speak in a quiet, shaking voice. "I'm not in the mood-"

"We're not fucking." Quentin says and presses a kiss against Peter's neck. "Not yet, at least."

Despite the fact that Peter can't swallow past this lump in his throat, he finds his body squirming because it's been so long since Quentin's touched him, so long since they've experienced intimacy in a gentle way that it makes his skin crawl. He still loves him - there's no doubt about that. Love is difficult, and Peter chose to be in a relationship knowing his partner sometimes got a little aggressive. It's not his fault at all.

So Peter sighs and relaxes back into Quentin's hold, letting him kiss along his jawline until he's barely thinking about work at all. The hand tight around his wrist eases, and the relief floods through him until goosebumps spring to his arms.

"I'm taking you out." He murmurs and Peter turns, too giddy with the fact that his gentle aura is back to even think straight. Quentin feels like Quentin again, soft and gentle and protective and he's so warm that Peter leans forward, his bandaged, stubby hands linking together behind Quentin's neck.

"I love you." He mumbles, too exhausted to do anything but breathe in Quentin's smell and set himself on that. He feels his feet lift off the ground gently, strong arms holding him through the waist. "I love you, I love you."

Quentin sighs and presses a kiss to Peter's cheek, his skin so clear in the glow of the sunrise. Peter flushes, his freckles so illuminated that Quentin wants to kiss every single one of them.

"I told them you were sick." He says with another sigh, still holding Peter by his waist. "They're giving you paid leave."

Peter doesn't say anything. He wraps his arms impossibly tighter around Quentin's neck and tries to stop the shaking, knowing he hates it but completely unable to steady himself.

The circle stays the same. Tensions rise, Quentin gets mad, Peter apologises, and then they sit in silence in nothing but the light of the moon or the sun and that works out just fine.

Really, it does.

*

“A little closer.” Quentin calls, weaving his way through branches and overgrown plants. Peter’s a little behind, tentative around the plants that seem to level out around his head, so tall he almost lost Quentin at one point.

When Quentin told him he had a surprise for him, this hadn’t been what he was thinking. It was more along the lines of dinner and sex rather than wading their way through a sea of green so large that he couldn’t distinguish how long they’d been travelling for.

Eventually the plants open into a large circle of cut crops, flattened so they barely reach Peter’s ankles as he steps through, avoiding a cluster of nettles on the right. Quentin’s already kneeling in the middle, digging around in the backpack he’d graciously carried the whole way.

“Did you pack any food?” Peter whines, stopping next to Quentin to drop to the floor, extending his legs out. He can feel the grass, too sharp to be comforting, sticking through his sweatpants. “I’m starving. Perfect picnic spot.”

It’s really not, because the ground’s painful and Peter has hay fever, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell Quentin that.

“Nope.” Quentin mumbles, still searching through the bag. “Here. Lie down.”

Peter raises an eyebrow at him but shifts to the right nonetheless, the ground becoming comfier as he rests his exhausted body on the ground. It must be almost four by now, and he’s starving _and_ tired.

“Can we get takeaway later?” He asks, eyes closed against the glare of the sun. “There’s this pizza place not too far from here. I think.”

Quentin just hums and Peter feels a flash of embarrassment in his stomach.

“Or not. Whatever.”

He bites his lip immediately after, expecting the annoyed response that inevitably follows. Nothing comes, though, so he quirks his head up and leans on his elbow, squinting in the sun where Quentin’s kneeling.

Except he’s not there.

“Quentin?” He calls, fully sitting up now. There’s no way he managed to scale the whole width of the open circle to run back to the sea of plants in just the few seconds Peter had had his eyes closed.

The sky looks slightly more overcast than it did when they got here, but not a plant is out of the ordinary. There’s no shuffling, no rustling, no _noise_ besides Peter’s own breathing and a strange scuttling sound coming from way below the ground.

“Quentin, it’s not funny.” He raises his voice, head still spinning this way and that trying to find any sign of his boyfriend.

The ground doesn’t feel uncomfortable underneath him anymore - in fact, it’s so comfortable it almost feels like it’s moving underneath his legs, massaging the muscles below him like it’s a water bed.

Actually, the ground _is_ moving.

It’s moving everywhere, so frantically Peter can’t set his eyes on any one thing. The scuttling sound is getting louder and louder, the ground visibly shaking dirt into the air slightly in front of his eyelids as Peter scrambles back.

And then the ground bursts.

It bursts in tiny little areas, so many that Peter can’t see, and even though it doesn’t look like it should be scary, he still slips on his frantic scrambling and falls to the ground with a shallow scream, watching as black spiders pour from the ground, their legs moving so quickly he can’t even see each of them.

“Quentin!” He screams, struggling to push himself off the ground. His hand catches on one of the spiders bursting from underneath him and he jolts upright, screaming as he trips away from its squished body.

He steps on another spider, so he jumps back and tries to catch himself from falling over and inevitably drowning in the spiders that seem to be multiplying with every frantic breath he makes. He still has no idea where Quentin is, no idea where he even is anymore, because surely he’s dreaming, surely this isn’t real?

He yelps again as he stumbles into something solid, but when he turns, there’s nothing there but muggy air. He scrambles for his bearings again, setting off at a run through the spiders, picking his way with tear soaked cheeks through the few empty spots there are on the ground.

Just before he reaches the overgrown wall of plants, the spiders disappear quicker than they appeared, the sky melting away back into its muggy blue horizon before he can blink. It suddenly feels too stoic, too quiet, too peaceful.

He stumbles a few feet into the plants before stopping, blinking frantically and spinning this way and that, trying to find his bearings again. He flinches as he turns to see Quentin standing ten feet away from him, his face wide and amused.

He leaps forward, grinning from ear to ear, his thumbs still twiddling with a device Peter recognises as the Binary Augmented Retro Framing ( _or, BARF, as Tony called it, and what Peter would only call it when he wasn’t around Quentin_ ) prototype that he’d been working on privately at home.

“Wasn’t that amazing?” He says, his eyes wide and childlike. “I’m thinking about using it for Halloween shit or something just for a bit of extra recognition. Get people on my side. What’s wrong?”

Peter’s staring at him, still shaking, his skin crawling with phantom spider legs, itching until he feels like he’s going to be sick because of how wrong it feels.

“Take me home.” He whispers, voice wavering and breaking. He’s so close to crying he feels sick, like a part of him has just been stolen right from under his feet.

“What? Why?”

“I said take me home.” He says, a little louder, but it’s still high pitched, still breaking.

Quentin stares at him for a long time before rolling his eyes, huffing about how he should’ve known and how Peter was a pussy and how he was this and how he was that but he can’t even hear over the rushing in his ears so he doesn’t say anything.

They walk back to the car in silence, Peter flinching at every sound the trees and the ground makes, his hands still trembling even when they reach the grassy verge where the car’s parked.

Quentin doesn’t look at him the whole ride back, and, really?

Peter’s ludicrously relieved.


	12. leech boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am SO sorry this took so long to put out, i'm extremely bogged down at the moment what with moving to uni and having to learn a lot, it's very overwhelming!

“Very good!” Tony says, a little too loud, and Peter turns with a nervous grin plastered on his face.

They’d been working on the prototype for the last few weeks, and it’s finally in a position to be tested. Peter’s fingers healed fully a week and a half ago, and he’d been working hands on day and night ever since.

Tony still thought the bandages on his hands were from lightning fast reflexes at a bar when the bartender had accidentally dropped a glass. He didn’t question why it had taken so long to heal, and Peter didn’t have the heart to tell him that Quentin squeezed them every time he got angry.

They still hurt a little now around the scars etching into his fingertips, scars he’d have to live with for the rest of his life, but he didn’t try and worry about it too much. He was just too hypersensitive, and it was becoming a problem.

“I have a crazy idea.” Tony says, his feet up on the lab table. His fingers are clasped together under his chin, a thoughtful look in his light blue eyes. “I want you to show the prototype at the launch event tonight.”

Peter’s jaw drops. Literally.

The launch party was something Peter had been invited to as an intern, a very small gathering between the engineering department, the PR department and, of course, the holographic department. It was the only reason Quentin was letting him go. 

Still, it was a big deal. The adhesive had only been in testing for a couple days, and they weren’t even fully sure it was working yet. Sure, the glue had just stuck a fake hand to a wall with a pin sized amount on each finger, but it could still fail. And besides, they’d barely made enough to fill the bottle a quarter way up.

“I don’t know, Mr. Stark.” He mumbles, grabbing his suit jacket from the back of a chair. Shuri’s resting on the palm of her hand in the chair next to it, her eyes closed after hours upon hours of working. “It’s barely out of the basics.”

Tony just scoffs, swigging the last of a coffee that must be cold by now. It’s six in the evening and it should be dark outside, but they’re down in the basement and he can’t be sure.

He should be meeting Quentin upstairs in two minutes, but instead he’s getting ready to showcase a prototype to a bunch of people he doesn’t know about a product that might very possibly fail on stage. If the prototype doesn't fail, Peter getting attention when it could be aimed at Quentin will make him want to die on the spot anyway.

Peter chokes and looks up at where Tony’s staring at him, his eyes wide like a deer in headlights. All of a sudden he feels sick and dizzy, weak to t he knees at the thought of even stepping on stage in front of all those people, never mind _speak_ in front of them. He can barely speak to the receptionist at the front doors of the Stark Industries building.

Tony’s watching him in that way he’s adopted, a comforting, concerned, gentle look on his face as he regards Peter’s internal (and becoming external) panic.

“You don’t have to speak.” He says reassuringly and pokes Shuri on the shoulder, prompting her to get up and leave with them. “I kinda already set it up. Knew you wouldn’t want to.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to, Mr. Stark, I-” He says, stumbling over his words as he rushes to keep up with Tony’s large strides. “I want to, I just-”

“You have severe crippling anxiety.” He replies, and it doesn’t sound unkind. They reach the beginning of the stairs and he looks back when the height difference is made up of three individual steps, gently ruffling his hair. Shuri’s passed them already, yawning, but looking stunning in a neatly pressed dress and an unfamiliar up-do that she’d said was a family tradition. “I get it. I’ve been doing this for so long, I’d forgotten what it’s like.”

They continue up the stairs in silence, Tony too busy focusing on flicking through his phone, Peter too busy internally worrying about Quentin and about the fact that MJ’s supposed to meet him but she missed her train and about the fact that his tiny little science project is being debuted in its early production stage in front of a bunch of people Peter could only dream of being as powerful as.

“You coming?” Someone says, and Peter blinks. He’s stopped behind a door, and Tony’s holding it open, his face a confusing mix of sarcasm and concern.

Peter nods quickly and hurries through, apologising a thousand times like it’s his job because it’s all he knows how to do anymore.

It’s all going well, too well, because the corridors are clear and it’s an early night and if Peter’s really lucky he’ll be asleep by eleven with only a minor argument, something he feels so refreshed by that he can’t even speak.

But, of course; damn his family name. Parker luck and all that shit.

“Peter!” A voice says, and Peter’s blood instantly runs cold. Quentin’s standing in front of them, leaning against the wall, his arms straining against his shirt from where they’re folded against his chest. Peter’d be drooling if he could stop thinking about those same hands grabbing him, slapping him, squeezing him.

Peter smiles shakily and greets him with a gentle kiss to the cheek. He knows Quentin’s too busy staring at Tony to reciprocate it, but he’s past caring at this point.

They’ve been over it so many times that Peter had just barely agreed. He’d gone quiet and admitted that, even though he wasn't attracted to Mr. Stark, his boss, his mentor, at all, maybe he might fuck up in the future, and it was up to Quentin to keep him in his place. That had stopped the argument about Tony Stark, at least. One thing at a time.

“You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.” He whispers, a large hand on his waist as he guides him behind where Tony and Shuri are still walking, still chattering to each other. Peter aches so badly to be between them and not here, not while Quentin’s grip feels like it’s squeezing his lungs.

He doesn’t bother telling Quentin that he was, in fact, only a minute late. He just smiles and apologises because he’ll be damned if this night is being ruined yet again.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket and before he can reach back and answer it, Quentin’s taking it out, his hands gliding over the screen without showing it to Peter first, whatever message lit up on it for his eyes only to decide. Peter’s still not sure what he’s deciding _on_ , but he’s past bothering.

“Who’s MJ?” He asks, coming to a stop behind where Tony and Shuri are waiting outside the elevator.

“My friend.” Peter murmurs. “She was supposed to be coming to see me tonight. She really wants to meet you; Mr. Stark got her in.”

Quentin’s face turns sour, but it gives Peter a little spark in his stomach. Defying is something he does rarely, and it feels so good to control at least something in his life right now.

“Who’s that?” Tony hums as they step inside the elevator, obviously eavesdropping.

“MJ. The-.” 

“Art student.” Tony finishes, and Peter doesn’t feel the anger he feels every time Quentin interrupts him. “Absolutely incredible.”

Peter nods in agreement, trying to keep his breathing steady as Quentin’s hand tightens on his waist. He’s digging his fingers in so hard they’re pressing against his ribs, and he looks up with a final plea to let go.

It’s ignored. He knows Quentin can see him looking at him, hell, _Shuri_ can see Peter looking at him, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. Not that he’d been expecting him to, but it’s nice to try.

She sends him a weird look, that same weird look that May had sent him when he’d told her his boyfriend was twelve years older than him, the same weird look their neighbour gave them after a long night of shouting and hate fucking, the same weird look Tony’s face shifted into whenever the two of them were brought up. It’s like everyone’s trying to read them, trying to read in between their lines, and it makes him indescribably uncomfortable.

“I’ll have Happy bring down the prototype in about fifteen minutes, alright kid?” Tony says, typing away on his phone, and all of a sudden he feels sick again.

He’d forgotten about the very real fact that he was going to debut the prototype today. Sure, Tony had gracefully overtaken his speaking roll, but he still had to be there, had to show his face. He imagines the people hating it, imagines embarrassing himself in front of everyone, and almost throws up all over Quentin’s nice shoes.

“What’s this prototype?” Quentin hums, drumming his fingers on the curve between Peter’s ribs and his hip. He’s loosened his grip slightly, and Peter allows himself to breathe out.

“It’s nothing-” Peter stats, heart rate already quickening when Tony opens his mouth.

“Peter's adhesive prototype.” He says. “We’re gonna have to come up with a name. Looks like spider webs.”

He keeps rambling, but all Peter can focus on is the lips against his ear, the harshly whispered _‘what fucking prototype?’_ ringing in his ears as he flinches from the spit reaching his face.

Eventually the tortuous elevator ride ends, with Quentin’s hand tighter than before on Peter’s waist, preventing him from going anywhere else. He finds himself almost horrifically glad, because he knows his legs are shaking so hard that he'd fall straight to the floor had he been supporting his own body weight.

“We’ll be out in a second.” He says when they step off, a winning smile plastered over his stupidly gorgeous face. Peter hates that even though his stomach churns in fear whenever he looks at him, he still can’t deny the fact that he turns him on almost all of the time.

Tony nods, his gaze lingering a little too long on then both before making his way out down the long corridor to the stage, which is covered with a red curtain. Peter wonders if he caught the wide eyed, lip biting look of fear he gave him.

Apparently not, because he still disappears and Quentin still pulls him into a janitor’s closet and the anger is still in the air and it’s real, it’s real.

“You’re debuting a prototype?” He spits, and Peter flinches.

He’d been bracing for a hit, but Quentin sounds genuinely curious. He unclenches his jaw a little to answer, hands still shaking inside his pockets.

“It’s just- Just a project. Yeah. It was Tony’s i-idea, he just thinks it’s good enough-”

“Of course it’s not good enough.” Quentin laughs, and Peter’s heart _shatters_. “You’re only an intern.”

He must see the look of genuine heartbreak on Peter’s face, because he tuts and rubs his thumb against his cheekbone. His face looks soft, and Peter blinks against tears, pressing his cheek into Quentin's large, warm hand.

“Sorry, baby.” He mumbles, pressing a kiss to Peter’s forehead. “I just don’t want you to embarrass yourself.”

“Anyway,” he continues with a show stopping grin, large and gleaming and Peter finds himself offering a small, weak smile back in return. “It’s my night to shine. He won’t turn this down, I guarantee it.”

“So you want me to pull it?” Peter asks timidly, ignoring Quentin’s gloating. “Tell him no?”

Quentin hums, like he’s musing something over, and then pulls Peter towards him with two hands on either side of his head, gently playing with his curls.

“It’s up to you, sweetheart.” He says gently. “But if you do, I might have a surprise for you.”

He moves his lips down Peter’s face, kissing over his jutted cheekbones and his bony jawline, mumbling against the skin like he’s not even speaking to him directly.

“And if you don’t?” He says, and sucks harshly on a patch of skin on Peter’s neck, making the smaller boy arch forward with a loud gasp. It’s been so long since they’ve done anything, anything that didn’t involve fear and pain and control. “I might have a different surprise for you.”

And with the way he bites at Peter’s jawline as they leave, his hand back on his waist and still tight, Peter doesn’t doubt him for even a second.

*

“I know, Mr. Stark, it’s just...” Peter trails off, jumping when Quentin squeezes him on the waist again. “I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of all those people. Or you. Maybe next time.”

Tony hums, not looking directly at Peter. His eyes are flickering between him and Quentin, squinted like he’s trying to figure something out.

“Alright, Mr. Parker.” He says, but he’s looking at Quentin. “Alright.”

Quentin smiles, a cocky, half smirk that makes Tony’s eyes narrow even more. Peter’s technically in between the two of them, even though he’s off to the side, staring in like this stupid, one sided conflict doesn’t involve him.

“I’ll see you later, then. I have some real projects to debut.”

Peter flinches, eyes trained somewhere on the ground like it’ll swallow him whole if he willed it to. He’s the one who said his prototype was stupid, that it wasn’t even a real project anyway. Why does it hurt so bad if he’d told Tony that himself?

Tony leaves with another glance at Peter and a smile he can’t read at Quentin, leaving the two in the corridor. Alone.

“I’m so proud of you.” Quentin hums, turning to Peter with a big smile on his face. His hands come to grip Peter’s upper arms and he flinches, deathly afraid of him squeezing tighter if he says just one thing wrong. “I couldn’t bear for you to embarrass yourself.”

And then he bursts into tears.

He wants to show off his project. He actually _really does_. Fuck his anxiety and constant fear of embarrassing himself - he wants to be up on stage with Tony and Shuri showing off his intelligence and proving that he’s not just some stupid nerd who’s only skill is decathlon.

Quentin looks shocked, quickly moving his right hand to wipe Peter’s tears away. Too quick, he thinks, because the younger man flinches back so violently he pulls himself from Quentin’s grip, trembling too hard to care about whether anyone saw.

“Peter, stop it.” Quentin whispers harshly, no care in his voice. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“Embarrassing you?” He cries, furiously wiping at his own tears. Maybe he’s speaking a bit too loudly, but he doesn’t care, too shaky and upset to think about the consequences. “Embarrassing _you_? Is that what it’s all about?”

Quentin looks at him for a long time without saying anything, and that tells him all he needs to know.

“I really wanted this, Quen.” He cries, trying to suck in shaky breaths between the need to sob and drop to his knees in this loud, empty corridor. “I really did.”

Before Quentin can open his mouth to say anything, the door opens behind him again, familiar dress shoes clicking on the marble floor.

“Pete, there’s someone here who really wants-” Tony starts, stopping a little ways in front of the door. “Are you alright?”

Peter blinks. How the hell does he respond to that?

Quentin grabs his hand, taking the words from his mouth, and for once, Peter’s grateful for it. He thinks if he had to speak, he’d start sobbing right here right now and everything would be fucked up.

“He’s just tired. He gets overwhelmed easily. He might just call it a night.”

The words sound easy, but Tony doesn’t look convinced. His eyes are flicking between them, from Quentin’s stoic, smiley face, to Peter’s tear stained cheeks, his wide, begging eyes that are fixated on the floor.

“Are you alright, Peter?”

“I just told you-”

“I’m asking Mr. Parker.” Tony says and Peter snaps his head up. Nobody ever speaks to Quentin like that.

_He’s going to be so fucked when they get home._

“I’m fine.” Peter says, cursing the way his stupid voice breaks. He rubs at his eyes, feeling the wave of exhaustion wash over him, familiar and constant ever since he became scared to sleep next to Quentin unless he was asleep already. “Quen’s right, I’m just tired.”

He says it with a smile, one he hopes is convincing. Tony doesn’t smile back, just watches them both, too observant, too curious.

“Right, well, good luck, Mr. Stark.” Quentin says, pulling none too harshly at Peter’s hands, and he feels his legs begin to shake again. He sounds so _angry_. “Peter’ll be back in tip top shape next week.”

Peter wonders if Tony can hear the bite behind his words.

As they walk away, Quentin practically dragging Peter behind him as he starts crying again, shaking too hard to walk in a straight line, Tony watches them. He doesn’t move, not once, not until they’re almost at the door and Peter turns back and he regards them with a wave that’s slow and sad.

When they get outside the double doors, Quentin pulls him forward and pushes him back to the side, immediately getting in his face till Peter’s forced to squish himself against the wall, still crying, still shaking.

“I didn’t mean to cry.” He sobs, hoping they’re not alone, hoping Quentin believes him. “I promise I didn’t mean to, please believe me.”

“You fucking idiot.” He spits, running a hand through his hair. It looks messy, his eyes blown and wild like an inmate at a psychiatric hospital. “He’s going to think you hate me. And where’s that going to leave me? Huh?”

Peter stays silent, clenching his trembling hands into fists. He doesn’t think they’ve ever shook so violently before, doesn’t think he’s ever been so deathly terrified of going home in his whole life.

“Tony owns this shit hole.” Quentin says, shaking his head. “How am I going to get my work out there now because _you_ fucked it up?”

“I’m sorry.” He cries, but it’s not his fault. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“You never mean to do a lot of things. And somehow they always find a way to fuck me up.”

Peter gapes like a fish, following on shaky legs as Quentin storms down the stairs, his arms reaching out even though he’ll never catch up.

“I’m sorry! Please don’t go.” He hiccups, cursing his body for its inability to move any faster. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“One too many ‘sorry’s’, Peter. A pretty face and good lips won't work every time.”

“I’ll do better!” He shrieks, stopping a few feet away as Quentin opens the car door. He looks sad and angry and pleased and smug all at the same time. It’s weird for someone to radiate such violent emotions, especially for someone as closed off as him. “I promise. Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me.”

“I don’t know how else to teach you, Peter. You’re on your own.”

Peter’s breath hitches and he scrambles forward in a panic as Quentin closes the door, locking it immediately behind him. He pounds on the window, panic eating at his stomach until he feels like he might throw up.

“I don’t have anyone else, Quentin!” He shrieks again, too hysteric to care about anyone seeing. “Please don’t go, I’ll do anything, please let me in.”

Quentin just smiles at him, a small, sad smile, and puts the car into gear, barely missing Peter’s toes as he pulls out of the car park.

Peter's cries are so loud that they're piercing even his own ears, loud and hysterical and shrieking. He knows there's a few people, a few of Quentin's colleagues and Tony's friends, that'll see him as an unstable intern and undoubtedly report to their boss.

He watches Quentin go, watches him all the way down the street until he turns right and off from his field of vision altogether. He leaves an undesirable silence behind him, blanketing Peter in a hazy, scared blanket that stops the hypothermia settling in. The tears slow, but the hyperventilating doesn't, his frantic breathing so violent that he's worried he's going to faint and be left here, all alone, in the cold of the February night.

He stands there for a while, gasping at the floor. He can’t even believe that this is real, frantically pinching himself to wake up, but he’s still here, still alone, still cold and scared. He has no idea where Quentin is, and considering it’s been at least ten minutes, he doesn’t think he’s coming back.

So Peter clenches his fists and tries to be brave and starts walking down the cold, dark street, tears cold on his cheeks, because he’s nowhere to go but home. His phone’s in the car, and he’ll be damned if he goes back in to talk to Tony.

Damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t. It’s just another thing to add to the list of things he can’t win at in life.


	13. crocodile tears

His fingers are cold and white, his lips blue, and his fingertips purple. His teeth are chattering loudly in the stairwell as he makes his way to the fourth floor, and his feet hurt with every step.

This is it. This is the moment he knows he’s truly fucked up.

He’s already planned it. He’ll go in, listen to whatever Quentin wants to hurt him with, drop to his knees, do whatever he wants him to do, and then it’ll be fine. If nothing else, at least he can rely on their circle of relationship to keep him stable, keep him in the loop.

The door isn’t locked when he gets to it. He stands with his hand on the knob, breathing shallowly with closed eyes, trying to prepare himself for whatever lies behind the door.

He knows Quentin will be angry. He just hopes his anger won’t turn violent tonight.

But, Parker luck and all that shit. When has anything ever gone his way? Ever?

Peter enters the house like a brave deer scavenging for food, his eyes scanning the dimly lit living room for signs of danger before entering. It’s a habit he picked up a while ago, and he can’t seem to shake it.

There’s a small glass of whiskey on the kitchen counter, half full and half empty, discarded in a hurry. It’s spilt in places, splashing along the counter, making the house reek of strong alcohol.

Peter walks through, fumbling with the strings of his scarf. It’s wrapped tight around his neck, gently pulled into his jacket to keep the biting air from his flesh. He doesn’t see a reason to take it off yet, considering the windows are open and it’s as cold in here as it is outside.

Peter steps forward again, about to open his mouth to call a shaky ‘ _Quentin?_ ’, but before he can, the pressure on the scarf is impossibly tighter, squeezing in every part of his neck until he’s gasping and screeching and gagging.

He claws at the scarf, his eyes wide and desperately searching. He doesn’t even need light to know it’s Quentin though, because he can smell him, can feel him, can sense him; the immediate danger he’d felt made sure of that, like a sixth sense he’s just acquired. He can tell instantly when he’s in danger, but he’s always too afraid to do anything about it.

Quentin doesn’t say anything, just squeezes harder until Peter’s slapping at his thigh, growing weaker and weaker as his head begins to ache in that hazy, darkened way.

“Q-Quen.” He wheezes, hands frozen mid claw on the scarf. “Let...go.”

“Telling me what to do now are you?” He bites back, the venom in Peter’s ear making him flinch. “Wanna control anything else in my life, Peter? Want to make anything else yours?”

It’s hard for Peter to understand how _he’s_ the one in control when Quentin’s physically overpowering him in every way he can, from pinning him down in the bed to smacking him and choking him to death, but somehow it still makes sense. It’s like no matter how powerful Quentin gets, Peter’ll always be in the wrong, always be a brighter ray of light in the world, and he fucking hates it. If he could, he’d burn himself to the ground and be done with it - let Quentin have his shine.

He’s not the one with the upper hand. He never was.

“I should just keep you like this,” Quentin muses, only releasing his grip slightly enough so that Peter can gasp and cry, but not escape. “Lightheaded and easy. Too in pain to do anything but stand here and cry. Poor baby.”

Peter just wheezes in response, his brain barely processing the words before throwing them back out again. He’s too focussed on using the remaining bits of his energy to smack Quentin’s thighs, to wiggle futilely and breathe as deep as he can while the scarf suffocates him.

As the room grows darker around the edges, seeping forward like spilt ink, he thinks he’s going to die. No doubt about it.

But Quentin, being his usual dramatic, taking-it-too-far self, lets him go just on the brink of passing out, his arm quickly snatching away from the tendrils of the scarf so Peter has nothing to hold onto to keep himself up. He lurches forward, his knees buckling under the intensity of the act, and dry heaves onto the floor.

There’s a hand in his hair suddenly, pulling even though he hasn’t yet caught his breath, tight and unforgiving as it yanks his head back and forces him to stare into the eyes of a man he genuinely thought he’d love forever.

“You throw up, I’ll make you fucking eat it.” He spits, and lets go with a slap to the back of the head, forcing any unshed tears to spill from Peter’s eyes. 

For a moment, he’s not touching Peter at all - not hurting him, not stroking him, nothing. And yet his skin still tingles, phantom pains making him flinch even though nothing’s happening.

For a moment, it seems like Quentin’s done. He’s downed the glass of scotch, poured another half glass, and is quietly musing over the scene while Peter’s splayed on his hands and knees, desperately trying to wheeze in air. For a moment, it seems like he’s finally safe. As safe as he can be at any one time in apartment 505.

But he’s not done.

He never is.

He pulls Peter to his feet again, backing him into the kitchen counter. He’s so tall and Peter’s so small, so skinny, so fragile, and it makes him feel even more sick. He could whatever he wanted and Peter’d be completely powerless to stop it.

His eyes are wild, and his breath reeks of alcohol, a strong, harsh smell that makes Peter want to throw up. When he speaks, it’s between his teeth, biting and spitting.

“Looking all buddy buddy with Tony Stark aren’t you? How does he fuck you, Peter? Does he-”

“Stop it!” Peter cries, as loud as he possibly can. It scratches though his throat and probably alerts some of the other residents in the apartment building, but he can’t bring himself to linger on it too long, not while he’s fighting for his life in his own kitchen. “It’s not _like_ that, I promise! It makes me _so_ uncomfortable when you say that, I wouldn’t even _think_ about it!”

Quentin sucks on his tongue for a minute, one eyebrow quirked. The terror never leaves Peter, forcing shockwaves through his stomach and heart every five seconds until his skin feels like it’s crawling.

“I just won’t speak again then.” He says eventually, and turns with a final raise of his eyebrows. “If that’s what you want.”

“You know-” Peter starts, pushing himself off the counter, but Quentin turns and stops him with a heavy handed punch. It hits him square in the nose, and he can feel the warmth of exploding blood before he feels the pain.

“Don’t follow me.” He spits, genuine disgust written all over his face, and makes his way to their bedroom with his stupid glass of scotch.

There’s no time for him to allow his body to adjust, no time to let his mind settle and dissociate and understand what’s just happened. The blood’s choking up his mouth, pressing heavy in the bottom of his abused throat, the pain in his nose so real he’s sure it’s broken. The thought makes him cringe, so he presses a wad of kitchen towel right underneath his nostril to avoid touching it, his body shivering at the thought of having to go to hospital. 

He’s just getting the bleeding under control when there’s a knock on the door, echoing in the quiet apartment and making him jump six feet in the air. He shakes his arms off; why is he so twitchy all the time?

The knocks are short and sweet, nothing that Peter recognises. Nobody ever knocks on their apartment door unless it’s a package or mail, and it’s so late on a Friday that he can’t imagine that being the case.

When Peter makes his way over to the door on unsteady feet, the blood ceasing quickly, there’s a man standing in the hallway, dressed in slouchy black shorts and a tie dye jumper. Peter’s never understood the fashion of wearing shorts and a thick sweater, but he doesn’t know much more himself.

“Hi, I’m, uh-” The man starts, the stuttering not coming from a place of nerves. “Are you alright?”

Peter’s hand moves to his nose again, noticing he’d somehow taken the tissue away and it’s now bleeding again. He presses his hand underneath it, wincing in pain when one of his fingers accidentally presses on his nose.

“Nosebleed.” He smiles, hoping the man can’t see the coppery blood staining his teeth. “Get them all the time.”

The man nods, his eyebrows drawn in together. They’re big for his face, the same honey blonde colour as his hair, but frame his green eyes perfectly. He’s tall, as well, at least three inches taller than Peter, pushing on Quentin’s size. Peter finds himself unconsciously curling in on himself, his body ultimately recognising tall men as a threat.

“What about that bruising on your neck?” He asks, a lot more confident this time. “Get that all the time too?”

Peter jolts back, too busy blinking in astonishment to process Quentin’s footsteps behind him.

“Can we help you?” Quentin says, and Peter flinches. He’s too sweet. Sickly sweet.

The man stares at Quentin for a long time, never once breaking eye contact. Every second makes Peter’s bones ache a little more, knowing that all it’s doing is adding fuel to the fire that he knows resides inside Quentin tonight. He doesn’t know why it’s so alight, but he doesn’t want to add anything else to it; tonight’s been enough already.

“If you don’t, we really should-”

“Cookies.” The man says, like he’s finally remembered why he’s here. “My little sister’s made a business. Wants me to give her card to everyone.”

Quentin hums.

“At eleven o’clock at night?”

The man doesn’t even falter.

“She’s a hard worker.”

The silence that follows makes Peter’s fingers twitch. They’re both around the same size, staring at each other like they’ll die if they break eye contact first. He doesn’t even know this man’s name, and he’s not sure he wants to; doesn’t want to give Quentin something to use as leverage against him.

“Well, it was nice meeting you.” Peter smiles stiffly, his voice thick and muted behind the blood. He takes one of the cards from the man’s hand, eyes gracing over the last name _Keener_. “Goodnight.”

He shuts the door before the man can say anything else, before _Quentin_ can say anything else. The last thing he wants is for them to have a fight in the middle of the hallway.

Peter takes a second to breathe through the blood, tasting a tangy copper in the back of his throat. He needs to spit it out, needs to clean himself of the blood, but when he turns around, he’s completely frozen.

Quentin’s staring at him, his hands in fists, his jawline clenched together. He looks the embodiment of a human god, too large and powerful for his own good, too able to crush something as tiny as Peter if he were angry enough.

And right now?

He looks more than angry enough.

*

Peter pulls a little at the handcuffs, but he’s long since realised that there’s no way out of them.

He’s just not strong enough. They’re so tight against his skin that he can’t even wiggle out, and he’s got more chance of surviving six bullets to the head than he has breaking out of these binds. He turns his head a little to where the shower’s still running, and presses his lips together as far as they’ll go around the thick rope in his mouth.

He was too noisy, Quentin said. Cried a lot. Noisy in bed, too, but that wasn’t what he’d been talking about. Maybe it was. Peter’s not even sure Quentin knows what he’s talking about half the time.

Each pull on the handcuffs makes them clang against the bed post. It’s loud enough to hurt his sensitive ears, but not loud enough that somebody’d hear. Besides, if anyone was coming to save him, they’d have done it when he was crying and screaming in Quentin’s arms, kicking against nothingness as he dragged him back to bed.

He’d calmed down after that, though. Kissed him on the forehead and gone to take a shower. It’s been ten minutes, and Peter’s dreading the gentle lull of the running water turning off anytime soon.

He doesn’t know how he’s going to sleep like this. His nose has stopped bleeding, but it’s still all dried around his nostrils, and he can feel the bruising every time he moves his lower face even a little. Maybe it’s not broken, but it’s sure going to have a nasty bruise.

And that’s how he spends the rest of his time thinking. How he’s going to cover up this bruise, not how he’s going to leave or how he’s going to get out of these handcuffs or how he’s going to look for help. He still loves Quentin, he does, and he knows there’s some problems, but the lines between reality and make believe are getting blurrier by the day and he’s not sure he trusts his own mind to leave.

True to his word, Quentin’s out soon after. He never spends long in the shower, and Peter hopes he’s just used this time to calm down. Still, his body tenses, every muscle in every limb going rigid as he hears the familiar sounds of Quentin’s footfalls on the carpet.

He’s going to be sick. If he’s sick through the rope, would it just be forced back into his throat? He has no idea, but he clenches his jaw, unnerved by the sound of teeth against rope, and tries to steady his stomach.

He can hear Quentin’s breathing before he sees him. It’s gentle and steady, nothing like Peter’s own, frantic, laboured breaths. It’s getting hot, never mind the fact that he’s wearing nothing but underwear; something Quentin did, because he could kick off blankets, but he couldn’t kick off clothes.

Peter’s eyes meet Quentin’s instantly. He flinches and snaps them down to his stomach, looking anywhere but into those blue eyes that may be angry, may be happy. He has no idea how to tell anymore.

“You look pretty like this.” He says, but Peter doesn’t react. He swallows harshly and tries to stop his body from jumping when Quentin comes to sit by him on the bed, his towel low on the V-line of his abs.

He trails one hand up Peter’s bare leg, forcing goosebumps to rise, even though it’s anything but cold. It stops around the top of his thigh, his large hand almost engulfing round the front of his thigh. His fingers are too close to Peter’s groin, and he opens his leg involuntarily to get away from the sensation.

“You’re alright.” Quentin murmurs, and leans down to kiss along his neck. “There’s children in this complex. You’d scare them with the screaming and your nuisance crying.”

He looks up again, through his eyelashes, his tongue gently trailing along the left side of Peter’s chest.

“You understand, don’t you?”

And ludicrously, astonishingly, despite the fact that he’s handcuffed to a bed without consent and gagged with a thick piece of rope that smells too fresh to be discarded, he does.

Of course he’d scare someone with his screaming. It happened to him so many times when he was a child; he lived in a bad neighbourhood, and people would often scream and cry and shout and sound like they were being murdered. Sometimes, they actually were.

Peter’d hide under his covers and promise May that it didn’t scare him, but he’d have deathly nightmares about women getting murdered and stabbings and of little baby Peter himself going missing or being strangled or being cut and gored and buried alive.

It was one of the main reasons he was in therapy when he was a child. One of the main reason’s he’s so fucked up today.

“I know you do.” Quentin continues, gently nibbling just inches away from his nipple, sucking too hard for it to be kind, but replacing it with too-soft bites until it balances out. “Smart boy like you. My clever little boy.”

And despite it all, Peter’s stomach flips. With want. With need. With _love_.

Quentin detaches himself eventually, once he’s had his fun and left Peter aching from head to toe. He leaves with nothing more, meaning Peter’s whole body is on fire waiting for a goodbye touch.

He whimpers behind the gag, but Quentin doesn’t pay any notice. Now that his body isn’t crawling with an ache he couldn’t shake, the terror is setting in. He flinches and tears spring to his eyes and he swears if he just had one hand free he’d call the police, but he doesn’t and he can’t so he doesn’t waste time crying for something he knows he won’t get.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.” Quentin says with a smile as he gently presses a kiss to Peter’s cheek. It’s wet with tears and he’s clanging the handcuffs again, whimpering and whining, but it doesn’t make a difference. He still turns around and blocks out any sounds Peter makes.

He could kick him if he wanted to. He could kick him and flail his legs around and cry and scream but it’d all be pathetic and muffled and for nothing at all, and it’d probably just leave him with his legs tied to the bed too, so he doesn’t bother. At least he can still move slightly now; he doesn’t want to take that away.

Quentin’s breathing hasn’t evened out yet. Peter should know - he’s sensitive to every little change of breath, every beat of heart, every unspoken word. It’s why he’s so good at recognising danger.

Except when it’s happening right under his nose, apparently.

Quentin shuffles a little, and then there’s a light. It’s probably his phone, but Peter doesn’t dare turn to have a look; Quentin hates it when he looks at his phone.

The light shuts off with a click after a few minutes, and Quentin shuffles round again, sinking himself deeper into the pillows. Peter’s arms ache from stretching above his head, and he can’t get comfy no matter which way he moves.

His eyelids are tired though. Whether it’s the fighting or the long day at work or the ache in his nose, his eyes are sore and he so desperately wants to go to sleep in this horridly awkward position. Despite how unsafe he feels it is to fall asleep right here, tied to the bed, choked and gagged next to a man who makes him shake when he sees him, his eyes pull downwards like they don't care whether he wants to sleep or not. They'll make the decision for him.

One minute he’s only resting for a few moments, his body drifting somewhere between sleep and consciousness, and then he’s stuck in a paralytic state, staring at a giant spider on top of him, his throat filling with spit as he chokes on his own tongue.

He can’t breathe.

He really can’t breathe, because the spider’s got its claw in his chest, piercing into his lung, cutting off any air supply and tearing his chest to bits. It’s completely silent, and Quentin doesn’t move to help him.

He's sure he's not asleep, which makes him freeze in terror even more. At least if he'd slept, this could've been a horrible dream.

The spider pushes down even more, and Peter finally finds the strength to scream, gasping in air even though it feels like his lung's been torn straight down the middle. Searing pain shooting down his chest, he pushes back at the spider, kicking and thrashing, freezing when his foot goes straight through it.

Straight through it, cutting a section off into tiny little pixels before it regenerates and grows back its leg. Straight through it, like Quentin did when he waved away the Binary Augmented Retro-Framing surgery.

"Peter?" He hears, and then again, louder. "Peter! Wake up."

He jolts upwards, eyes clenched tightly shut in case he reels forward and it really is a spider on top of him. It's not, because when he opens his eyes, there's nothing in front of him except for his own shaking legs and Quentin's face, gently peering down at him.

He's pulling so hard against the restraints that it feels like his shoulder's dislocating, his body so frigid that Quentin's gentle hand only makes him shake harder.

"Peter, it's alright." Quentin says, ignoring his flinch. He leans down on one elbow, gently stroking Peter's hair away from his sweaty forehead. "Sh, it's alright, it's just a bad dream."

Peter nods, tears he hadn't even noticed were building now streaming from his eyes. He's too shaky, too sweaty, too terrified to think about anything other than Quentin's gentle hand.

"Here." He says, and leans over to unlock the handcuffs, making quick work of them like he's experienced. He pulls the rope away from Peter's mouth, which is aching and sore. "Come here, it's alright."

Peter doesn't even think twice before climbing into Quentin's arms, his body falling exhausted onto his strong chest. It feels warm, despite everything; Quentin still smells like he did when they first met, like cinnamon and faint aftershave. He still looks like himself, even when he's angry.

He buries his head underneath Quentin's chin, sobbing into his neck. He feels sick, the shaking never stopping despite how Quentin's arms wrap around him.

"It's alright. It was probably just that spider you called me about in the corner of the lab. I know you're terrified. You're okay."

Peter hiccups and breathes in, shaking as he pushes himself away from Quentin's arms. He can't think straight, but he knows enough about mistakes to catch Quentin's.

"I never-" He breaks off, pushing himself fully away from Quentin. His voice sounds untrustworthy, even to himself, but he chokes out the words anyway.

"I never told you it was about a spider."


	14. fill in the blank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter :)

“What’s that on your face?” Tony asks, but he doesn’t hesitate for an answer. “And your neck? And your wrist? And your-”

“Mr. Stark!” Peter cries, too squeaky and high pitched. He looks around the lobby, dropping his voice without really noticing as they step into the elevator. “I was walking home last night. Some dick jumped me just round the corner from my street. Took all my cash.”

He sighs, biting his lip at how easily the lie comes to his tongue. Truthfully, he feels ill at the very thought of being here, considering every movement, every inhale, every blink of his eyes hurts.

Truthfully, even more so, the bruises on his face and his neck and his wrists are just his own fault. He’d pressed Quentin about the nightmare, not believing him when he’d said it was just a good guess. Eventually, his whining got annoying, and it shows in the patterns of purple and blue bruises painted all over his pale skin.

“And then beat you half to death?”

Peter had heard the phrase ‘ _beaten to death_ ’ a lot. He’d just never understood how viciously cruel a beating would ache in the morning after.

“He was very thorough.” Peter mumbles, biting it through his teeth. Tony’s still looking at him in the corner of his eye, like he knows Peter’s lying, but it’s just easier not to say another word.

Peter’s come to understand that a lot. That, even if someone saw Quentin beating the shit out of him in the middle of a crowded hallway, they wouldn’t say anything, because it’s just easier not to. It’s just easier to keep your nose out of business that doesn’t directly affect you.

The elevator seems extra slow today with the frigid air between Peter and his mentor. He flinches when Tony shuffles his weight to his other leg and covers it with a cough. He doesn't think he does it very well, but it’s well enough that Tony doesn’t say another word about his injuries. 

Everything aches, and he hurts physically and mentally, the agony dragging him down until it’s like his whole body is horrifically heavy. His heart thumps, gentle at first and then incredibly harder, until it hurts to even breathe.

He presses himself against the wall, grateful to let the sturdy bar take some of the heavy weight off his shoulders. It aches in ways it shouldn’t, like how he’s pressing on a bruise on his arm because it hurts less than the agonising pain in his heart and his chest.

He exhales again, the wheeze loud in the elevator. He feels ill, even though he knows the sore throat is from the chokehold. He wonders if he has a fever, if he looks as sick as he feels. If he does, Tony doesn’t mention it.

“I want you to sit in on my meeting this morning.” Tony says as the elevator stops somewhere near the top floors. The crowd seems to part for him, and in turn, for Peter. “We’re making the final decision on whether to run the _BARF_ program. It’ll be small, a good opportunity to get some experience in debating meetings. I’ll assume you’ll be unbiased?”

He sounds like he’s joking, but Peter only nods, too terrified to speak. He knows it’d come out shaky, scared, and that’d make Tony notice and then he’d ask people to watch him; he doesn’t need more eyes on him than he already has.

It might be a good opportunity, but he doesn’t even want to be in the same room as Quentin, neglecting to tell himself that he’d slept with him last night after he’d beaten him so hard his blood stained the kitchen tiles. He can almost feel the overwhelming anxiety rushing through his lungs like a tidal wave, choking him up with water until he feels like he’s going to throw it all up.

No one seems to notice his internal conflict, though. They never do.

“Perfect.” Tony says, and opens one of the first doors leading to the meeting room. “It started five minutes ago.”

*

"As you can understand, Mr. Beck, I am simply concerned of the increasing likelihood that this technology may fall into the wrong hands. I understand you acknowledge that this one small problem in itself would be abysmal."

Quentin pulls his head from his hands, his eyes probably frozen in a series of rolling backwards from the amount of time he's done it. He’s seemed only mildly annoyed, but Peter still flinches every time he looks at him, hoping to god that none of the other committee members notice.

He’s sure some of Quentin’s colleagues, helpful ambassadors from the holographic department, notice, but he tries not to think about it too much, too sick to his stomach at the thought that they might know, and are just neglecting to say. Keeping themselves to themselves and all that bullshit. Bullshit that’s gonna get him hurt one day. Badly. 

They’ve been here for so long, going back and forth and back and forth, every point made from Quentin’s side counteracted by Tony’s side. Peter hasn’t spoken a word, too terrified that he’ll find himself falling on the wrong side.

Which side is the wrong side, though, he hasn’t figured out.

"And as I told you, Mr. Stark," He seethes through gritted teeth, and Peter's hands start to shake. "Every single user would have an extremely thorough background check before being offered access. I only mean to use this for good."

"I know." Tony says, getting to his feet. Peter's stomach drops as Quentin looks at him, as though he, as an intern, has the ability to change his bosses mind. "But I can't take this risk for my company. I'm sorry, Mr. Beck. Perhaps if you offered to work through it with a PR colleague of mine, like Steve Rogers, I could-"

"Bullshit." Quentin shouts, and Peter jumps violently. He's glad he's sat at the back, because Tony insisted on overseeing as much of the meeting as possible; it means every little stupid flinch and jump goes relatively unnoticed. "My project is the best thing to happen to this goddamn company since you ceased weapon production and you fucking know it."

"I can pull the whole thing." Tony bites back, but he's a lot calmer, a lot more precise in his words. He downs the last of his coffee, places it in front of Peter, who's hiding his trembling hands underneath the table, and makes for the door. "I've given you an option. I suggest you take it."

He turns to look at Peter before leaving, one hand lingering on the door knob. Quentin's looking at him too, staring him down, daring him.

"Peter? This prototype won't build itself."

Peter swallows. _Shit_.

He looks back at Quentin who’s got expectance written all over his face, who’s just begging Peter to leave so he has a reason to hurt him later. There’s absolutely no doubt about it; Quentin happy, or his job.

Peter swallows the thought down, trying not to make himself throw up in this meeting. He knows Quentin doesn’t look for opportunities to hurt him, knows that that isn’t how his anger issues work, but it hurts all the same.

“Mr. Stark, I think...” He trails off, swallowing down the acid that coats his tongue. He pulls his hands back from under the table, bringing them halfway to his lips before stopping. “I think I’ll stay here for a minute? I have some, uh, ideas that might help. With the project. If that’s okay?”

Tony looks at him, and then at Quentin, and then at Peter’s hands. He unconsciously pulls them back underneath the table, self conscious of the scars etched in the skin there.

“Very well, Mr. Parker. You’re dismissed for the day.”

Peter doesn’t even bother arguing, doesn’t bother letting his face drop. He could have guessed a mile out that that would have happened, that eventually Quentin would get what he wanted, that Tony would leave him and Peter’d be left with nothing, nothing at all, besides Quentin himself.

When he turns back to the table, the colleagues chattering among themselves angrily, Quentin looks content. And Peter feels _terrified_.   
  
*

“It was good, what you did.” Quentin comments as they walk through the car park, not touching, but close enough that Peter’s body never relaxes from its tensing. “He deserved it. Rich dickheads like Tony Stark deserve to burn with all their wealth and power. You agree?”

Peter’s eyes go wide as Quentin stops, his head cocked slightly to the side.

He’s _testing_ him, Peter realises with a gulp. Testing to see if he’ll agree. Testing to see where his loyalties lie.

Peter offers a weak smile, his whole face drained of colour. He feels ill as much as he looks it, like his body’s taken so much stress that it’s ready to collapse with a fever he’s sure is coming on.

Quentin’s pleased with him, proud of him, even, and it’s all Peter’s ever wanted but he feels too ill to even relish in it. He’s been waiting for praise for so long, and when it finally comes, it feels horrifically alien to his ears. 

“Are you alright?”

Peter doesn’t know what to say. Physically? No. Mentally? Even worse. He doesn’t know how Quentin’d react to him telling the truth though, to telling him that his body aches constantly and he feels sick and stuffy and hot and stressed. There’s no way Quentin doesn’t know, considering he choked him, beat him, and then beat him again again until every inch of Peter’s skin stung with the painful linger of an ache he could never subside. There’s no way he doesn’t know this is his fault.

“Peter. You’re swaying.” Quentin says, but his voice sounds far away, like he’s floating and Peter can’t catch him. “Why don’t you-”

Peter grasps his arm, his grip weak and lazy. He blinks rapidly, the world spinning around him, his head pounding. Quentin’s hands are gentle on his waist, but Peter only claws harder, struggling to hang on to reality as it slips away further from his grasp.

His body feels like it lurches forward, even though he stays frozen still. He jerks, mouth salivating as his brain goes incredibly fuzzy, the giveaway signs of a fainting episode.

He blinks at the ground again, his eyebrows furrowing as it goes black, and lets his body give into the stress and the pain and the trauma, in the only way it’s known how to since he was young.

He passes out on the unforgiving floor of the car park, one hand sliding down Quentin’s arm, the other covering his bruises.


	15. with your hands between your thighs

He heals quickly. Quicker than usual, actually, but it’s expected, because it’s been three weeks and Quentin hasn’t gotten angry at him once.

He cuddles him gently, strokes his hair and lets him fall asleep on his chest. He brings Peter ice cream and soup for his throat and cries till the smaller man feels disturbed in his own bedroom, like he’s the dirty one, like he’s the one at fault.

Besides that, it’s good. Great, even. Three weeks of peace, and Peter’s almost forgotten what it’s like to feel hurt. Like it’d all just been a bad dream.

“You look beautiful.” Quentin murmurs, coming to stand behind where Peter’s frustratingly fixing his tie in front of the mirror. He barely even flinches at the arms around his waist. “Pretty, pretty boy.”

Peter’s heart flutters. There was a period, in the fighting and the anger and the violence, that Quentin never complimented him; never made him feel worth anything. Now, it’s a daily thing, and it makes him forget all about how he thought he might be able to survive on his own. He needs Quentin, and Quentin needs him - it just works that way, like a soothing melody played only between the two of them. 

He presses his lips to Peter’s neck, sucking gently on a faded bruise near his ear. The sensation is perfect, the most incredible mix between soft and pressure, the mix Peter had thought Quentin had forgotten how to present.

“My pretty boy.” He says, words spoken into the curve of Peter’s neck. “I love you.”

“Mm,” Peter hums, breathy as Quentin sucks a little harder. He lets go, turns Peter to face him, and fixes the tie for him. “I love you too. So much.”

Quentin smiles, a kind of sad smile that makes Peter’s heart hurt. He presses a kiss, soft as a butterfly, to the tip of Peter’s nose, and buries his face into the smaller man’s curls.

“We’re gonna be late.” Peter mumbles, though there’s not much more he wants to do than stay right here, for as long as possible, in the warmth of Quentin’s arms. It’s a warmth he thought he’d lost, and he’s not going to let it go that easily.

“I don’t think they’ll mind too much.” Quentin whispers, a small laugh escaping his chapped lips as he pulls Peter gently towards the bed. He’s been soft these past few weeks, but he’s been stressed, and he’s not taking care of himself. “I think a few of them would be jealous of the details.”

Peter squirms at that, laughing nervously as Quentin pulls him onto his lap and starts kissing at the front of his throat. He’s half perched on his knees, all the weight in his thighs just to keep him up - he won’t last long like this, not with all the muscle wastage in his thinning thighs.

Quentin seemed to enjoy talking to other people about their sex life. It didn’t bother Peter, per say, but he was worried that one day the older man would want to take it further, would want to involve other people. He thinks it sounds crazy, because of how terrified he’d been of Tony Stark getting into Peter’s pants, but there’s a first for everything.

“I love you.” Quentin says again, his hands gripping the top of Peter’s thighs tightly, taking the weight of his body into his own arms. He captures Peter’s lips, the kiss messy and sloppy, and grinds his hips upwards slightly. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Peter just gasps, his body still shocked every time Quentin touches him like this. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it; not now, not ever.

“I, ah-” Peter starts, breaking off in a whine when Quentin pulls him down so his hips are pressed tightly down against the older man’s, the pressure mounting and hot in the suit pants. “I love you too. So much.”

Quentin just hums, so Peter rolls his hips down again, knowing that his love language is physical, that sometimes he needs the reminder that he’s not gonna leave, not ever.

“Lie down, baby.” He murmurs, eyes blown. He gently, as gently as he knows how, drags Peter down so he’s lying on the bed on his side, his clothes feeling too tight and hot all of a sudden. “Show me.”

Peter’s not stupid. He can see it in Quentin’s eyes, can feel the lust rolling off him, can see his hand halfway down his waist where he’s crouching besides the bed. Peter’s stomach rolls and he whines, bringing his own hands in between his thighs.

“Good,” Quentin says, the word dragged out slowly. “Good, good boy, keep going.”

Peter whines again, desperate this time, rolling his hips into his hands. He and Quentin never break eye contact, Quentin’s gaze low and lidded and studying, whilst Peter’s is blown open and panting, a messy kind of lust he can’t control.

“You’re so pretty.” He sighs, bringing one hand to thread into Peter’s curls. He pulls, just slightly enough that it makes the younger man cry out and rut his hips faster, his legs already shaking purely at the way Quentin’s looking at him. “My pretty boy.”

“Quen,” Peter moans, a high, breathy moan that sounds weak. Quentin’s hand tightens again, pulling harder. “Yours?”

He doesn’t mean for it to sound like a question, but it comes out like one anyway. Quentin nods, and then his face falters for just a second, a dark, twisted look overcoming his features as he groans. He’s back to being loving, to being steady and stoic, and he leans in slightly closer, so they’re close enough that Peter’s eyes can’t stray from Quentin’s lips.

“Mine, baby, mine always.” He murmurs, eyes following as Peter throws his head back and his mouth falls open. “That’s it, just like that, good boy, good boy.”

There’s something so irrevocably sexy about Quentin’s voice when he gets like this, so dark and lustful and in control that Peter could listen to him read a dictionary and probably come from it. He himself is always breathy, needy, weak, when they’re like this, and they compliment each other so well.

“I should’ve taken you to the dinner.” Quentin says, voice low. “Should’ve sat you down in front of my colleagues, watched you dripping wet and rutting in your seat. You can’t contain yourself, can you?”

It’s such a stark contrast to his praising that Peter feels a jolt in his stomach, half lustful and half strikingly sad. He sounds mean, even though Peter knows he doesn’t intend to be; he’s just so used to hearing him put him down that he can’t wrap his head around it.

Not that he needs to, anyway. Quentin closes his eyes for a split second, and Peter still hasn’t faltered, his hips chasing his hands so quickly that he can’t even feel embarrassed about it.

“Do you think they’d know?” Quentin asks, and his voice is impossibly lower, the hand that isn’t in Peter’s hair somewhere down his own pants. It’s then that Peter realises that every time he thrusts his hips forward, he’s just finding friction in his dress trousers as well. The thought shouldn’t be as hot as it is, should be _embarrassing_ , if he could think straight. “I think they would. I think they’d know what a dirty whore you are and they’d watch you come right there in your trousers. Would you like that?”

“Quen,” Peter breathes out again, his eyes clenched shut.

“Of course you would. I’d kill them all. I’d kill them all and fuck you right there, get you all slippery and covered in blood.”

Peter’s eyes snap open, his mind instantly drawn back to reality when he processes Quentin’s words.

_What the fuck?_

“Come for me, baby, go on. Good boy.”

And, despite the fact that Peter’s skin is crawling and he feels ill and he’s so, so terrified of the way Quentin’s looking at him, like he wants to devour him whole, like he wants to keep him here and kill anyone who tries to help, he comes with a throaty moan, thighs clenching tightly around his hand.

He takes a while to come to after, and by the time he has, Quentin’s gently stroking his hair, his eyes soft again.

“What was that?” Peter says, not trusting his own voice. “With your colleagues. What’s wrong?”

Quentin’s eyebrows furrow, and he leans forward slightly, gently stroking his thumb against Peter’s eyebrow.

“What are you talking about, baby?”

_No, not this again, no, no, not again._

“No, Quentin, please don’t, you said you’d kill them all, you said you’d kill them if we went, you said that.”

All his rambling does is make Quentin pull back, his eyebrows even closer together as he tries to figure out what’s going on.

“Peter, baby, I didn’t say anything about my colleagues.” He says with a little laugh, and Peter ignores the stab of pain in his heart. “Why would I? I hate people looking at you.”

“Yeah, that’s why you said you’d kill them.” Peter says, frustrated, and pushes himself to a sitting position on the bed. He feels dirty, his pants sweaty and wet.

“I think that’d kill my mood instantly.” Quentin replies. “Why would I want to bring them up when I’m with you, baby? You’re all mine.”

Peter falters for a minute, and it’s all Quentin needs to swoop in and piece together fragments of his mind.

“Does that get you off?” He asks, not unkindly. “Is that what you’re in to? Do you want me to talk like that?”

“What?” Too many questions, two many questions. “I, uh, no, no, I don’t-”

“It’s okay if it is, baby.” Quentin says and places a gentle hand on Peter’s knee. “We’ll talk about it later, okay? We need to get going.”

So many nicknames, so many questions, and Peter’s brain can’t keep up. He blinks, and then blinks again, letting Quentin kiss him softly and pull him to his feet. Right. They have somewhere to be.

“That pretty little head of yours is gonna get you in trouble some day, honey.” He says, and Peter’s stomach rolls. “Best to let me know what you’re thinking before anyone else, yeah? Your mind runs wild.”

It’s Peter’s turn to kiss him now, and he does it because he doesn’t know what else is real anymore and this will ground him, this will keep him here. He presses his lips deeper, a bruising kiss that’ll leave them both swollen, and breathes out.

Tell Quentin first. Right. 

*

Quentin’s friends have always made Peter’s skin crawl in a way he couldn’t explain, but now he thinks it’s coming close to something the really should have guessed earlier.

They’re creepily obsessed with him, in a way that makes his hands tremble slightly. It’s like they know, like they know _everything_. They look at his faded bruises and his scarred hands and they just _know_.

Peter tries to ignore it. Tries to pretend he doesn’t notice the way they’re looking at him and the way Quentin’s arm is tight around his shoulders. Tries, as hard as he can, to ignore the clenching of Quentin’s jaw, the digging of his fingers, the pain of his grip.

Paradise doesn’t last forever. In Peter’s case, it doesn’t seem to last more than a week.

“You were eye fucking him the whole time!” Quentin shouts, slamming his hand down on the breakfast. Peter jumps, his eyes flitting around on the floor, and tries to find the words to defend himself.

“I-I wasn’t, I wasn’t, he was looking at me-”

“Aw, bullshit!” He says, exasperated, dragging a hand roughly through his hair. “You fucking lie to me one more time, Parker, go on, try it.”

Peter doesn’t speak, because Quentin’s striding across the room and grabbing his hair, pulling it to and fro like he’s a worthless toy.

“Fucking try it, baby, go on. Fucking lie to me one more _fucking_ _time_.”

Peter gulps.

There’s a knock at the door before either of them can say anything else, before Peter can apologise, before Quentin can insult him. It’s short, sweet, and Peter instantly recognises it.

Keener.

Peter doesn’t even move to answer the door, knowing Quentin will inevitably get there first. He watches from halfway into the kitchen as Quentin turns to him, motions for him to shut up, and then opens the door.

It is Keener, the man who’d brought his little sister’s cookie card round at eleven at night. He’s got her, or who Peter assumes is her, standing in front of him, her head barely reaching his waist.

Her eyes are wide, her hands outstretched holding a box of cookies, but Keener’s are staring straight at Peter, straight through the darkness. He doesn’t even look at Quentin once.

“Can we help you?” Quentin asks, his voice low and annoyed. He sounds gruff and tired, anger somewhere hidden beneath the words. 

He can’t even believe that just hours ago they were lying in bed, Quentin’s hands as gentle as anything, his lips so soft and loving and his words heavenly. Now, it seems as far away from a memory as one could possibly be.

“Cookies!” The young girl squeals, holding a box of chocolate chip biscuits. Peter finds himself stepping forward, even though Quentin told him to stay back.

“Not tonight, darling, thank you.” Quentin says, voice sickly smooth. He goes to close the door, but Keener’s foot stops it, his eyes still on Peter’s face.

“They’re free.” He says, finally looking at Quentin for the first time. He smiles, the same fake grin that Quentin wears when he’s angry at Peter, and dumps a heap of cookies into the older man’s arms. “Here.”

Quentin stumbles back, his face alight with anger for a few seconds, before he wipes it clean and goes to dump them on the table just behind the wall to his left.

Keener motions him forward quickly, and Peter find his feet moving before he can think, so eager to please at the simplest of tasks that he’s practically floating over to where Keener stands with something in his hand.

“Here.” He says, and pushes it into Peter’s hand. He flips it over quickly, noticing the _Harley_ scrawled on the back, and then two sets of phone numbers.

“I’m glad you could make it, but we really don’t-”

Quentin trails off, his eyes flickering between Harley and Peter’s enclosed fist, up to his terrified expression and then back to Harley. He looks angry, angrier than he had been before. Angrier than he’s been in a long time.

“Thank you for the cookies.” Quentin spits, smiling tight lipped at the girl, his expression dropping as he shuts the door harshly in their faces.

It’s silent for a moment. Quiet. Like snow settling on a dead body. Like still waters curtaining a shark. Like you know it’s gentle now and you want to hold on to it, just hold on forever, hold on as tightly as you can.

“What did he give you?” Quentin asks, low and gruff, his back still to the rest of the apartment. 

“I-I don’t know.” Peter stutters out honestly. He looks down at where he’s clutching the card, looks at the crinkles from where he’s gripped it so hard. “I didn’t even l-look at it.”

Quentin hums and pushes himself off the door, his strides so long that he reaches Peter without a step and a half.

Peter instinctively steps backwards a couple inches, the card clutched in his hand still. Quentin’s eyes flash and he reaches forward with his arm, snatching out at Peter’s hand. He claws the card out, his nails digging into Peter’s palm, who lets it go with a small whimper and a fresh set of tears in his eyes.

Quentin gives him a look, and it just makes Peter want to cry even more. He’d been so _gentle_. He’d been so kind and loving and gentle for the last few weeks, and now he looks exactly the same as he did almost a month ago when he left Peter on the streets for himself.

It had felt so _safe_.

Quentin’s gone silent, a deadly kind of silent, as he reads the card. He looks at Peter, barely having to change his face to make him feel like he’s a billion times smaller, and drops the card so Peter can read it on the floor.

Peter casts a quick glance at Quentin first, his eyes darting warily to see how bad it is.

It’s bad.

It’s so fucking bad that Peter’s never seen it so bad before. Not when he was tying him to the bed. Not when he was beating the shit out of him for accusing him of using the illusion on him again. Not when Tony Stark was brought up. Never.

Peter looks down at the card, squinting to make out the lines. There’s four, two names, two separate numbers. The first is Harley’s, of course, his number scrawled beneath it. He’s taken his time, gone gently about it, so it all fits on.

On the second line, there’s a number scrawled first, and then a name beneath it. Peter tilts his head, squints his eyes again, and feels like he’s been punched in the stomach.

There, written gently below the second number, is a name Peter’s never wanted to see in his entire life, but has probably come across a billion times whilst researching Quentin’s anger.

There, written like it’s in blood, stained and harsh and ugly, is the name of the domestic abuse safe house a couple blocks away from him.

Peter looks up at Quentin again, his heart instantly cold, and turns to run.

 _Shit_.


	16. there is very little left of me

Peter’s small, but he’s learnt how to be quick.

He darts from the kitchen breathlessly, Quentin’s low animalistic growl almost making him stop there and then and wait for the ground to swallow him whole.

He doesn’t even know why he’s running, because he doesn’t have anywhere to go, but Quentin’s following him and he’s so loud and he’s shouting and cursing and Peter’s heart is thrumming so fucking hard that he feels like it’s going to make him throw up.

“Stop right fucking there.” Quentin growls, his voice halfway to a shout, and Peter immediately stops.

He doesn’t know why his body’s so coded to do what Quentin tells him to do. He doesn’t know why he’s frozen in place even as he cries and whimpers and chokes and tries to push past the invisible barrier keeping him locked in place. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t dart for the front door when Quentin grabs him roughly by the ear, pulling so hard that Peter’s terrified he’s going to pull it straight from his skull.

He yells in pain, his voice begging to scream, but his brain too terrified of someone noticing to do so. He claws at Quentin’s hand, stumbling to keep up as he drags him towards the bedroom, and manages to rip free from his grip when his fingers slip slightly on his ear.

He makes a bolt for the front door, his brain not working, his feet moving before he can realise what’s happening. He’s almost there when a foot trips him and he goes crashing to the floor with a heartbroken whine, his fingers clawing their way to the door.

“Why are you running?” Quentin spits, dragging him by his ankles. Peter’s shirt rides up against the floor and he lets himself cry, because there’s nothing else for him to do anymore.

“Let me go.” He sobs, twisting futilely as he grabs onto the doorframe. “Let me go, let me go, let me go.”

He drags out the last word, hiccuping around a sob as Quentin pulls him to his feet by his hair. He yanks his head backwards and then slams him into the wall by his throat, lifting him so Peter’s toes are inches from the floor.

He gags and writhes against Quentin’s hand, his body so pathetically weak that it doesn’t seem to make any difference. He reaches out with his hands and his feet, kicking and scratching as hard as he possibly can.

He must catch Quentin eventually, because he drops him with a hissed curse, his hand immediately cradling his cheek. Peter should run, but he just lets his body drop to the floor instead, crying so loud he can’t hear anything.

“Can you just-” Quentin says, but Peter can barely hear him. “Just - fuck!”

Peter’s head smacks back into the wall, his body reeling with a wave of nausea as Quentin recoils his now bloody fist. Somewhere between his nose and the back of his head, the pain explodes and leaves him practically paralysed, and ultimately quiet, as Quentin shakes him by the curls of his hair.

“Never know when to shut up do you? Huh?” He seethes, voice low. “Huh? Never when to fucking shut that pretty little mouth of yours, do you?”

Peter just sobs, shaking his head with the hand to alleviate the pain slightly. He’s crying so loud that he’s sure someone must hear, sure that someone’s hearing him sob and is ignoring him completely. The thought makes his stomach churn, and he’s too busy figuring out a way to escape and scream in their faces to notice Quentin’s leant down and is talking to him.

Peter blinks a few times, his tears making Quentin’s face blur, and cocks his head slightly.

“What?”

It sounds croaky and weak, and Quentin rolls his eyes before leaning down to kiss him, his lips tasting of blood exchanged from Peter’s own mouth. It all seems so absurd and horrific, and he’s not entirely sure why he does it but he does it, of course he does.

He bites down, hard. Right onto Quentin’s bottom lip. Hard enough that blood spurts into his mouth and he leans back with a choked sob as Quentin presses his fingers to his mouth, looking half shocked and half so angry he could probably fill the entire world with his anger and still have some left. He narrows his eyes and looks up through his eyelashes to where Peter’s thrashing violently, shaking his head no until it feels like his head’s going to fall off.

He doesn’t even say anything. He doesn’t speak one single word.

He slaps Peter, hard, not waiting for him to recover before he’s dragging him by his hair to the middle of the bedroom floor and kicking him straight in the stomach. It’s so hard that vomit bubbles in his throat, and he screams for Quentin to stop, even though it probably comes out like a weak whine.

“You fucking,” he spits, breathing heavily as he leans down to straddle Peter, putting all his weight on his bruised stomach, and goes straight to simultaneously choking and slamming his head into the floor. “Fucking bitch. Stupid fucking bitch.”

Peter cries out again, his head thrumming so hard he can’t think. He wants to speak, wants to form words, but he doesn’t think he can, doesn’t think he can even cry proper tears anymore.

Quentin slams his head into the floor again and keeps it there, one hand threaded harshly in Peter’s hair while the other encloses into a fist and slams into his jaw.

The pain is explosive, echoing all throughout his lower jaw and right down his throat. He feels like he’s choking on something, like a blood clot or vomit, so he spits it onto the floor, vaguely aware of his cries getting louder.

Quentin’s not even making proper sentences anymore, just spouting curses like it’s his job. He spits, watches it land on Peter’s temple, and rubs it into his eye.

“Fucking bitch.” He says again, and it probably shouldn’t ache as much as it does. He lets go of Peter’s head altogether, lets it flop dangerously on the carpet, and slaps him once on the left side of his face. “Thinking you’re all so fucking high, right? Snuggling in with Tony fucking Stark like it’s your god given right. You’re disgusting.”

Peter swallows harshly, kicking futilely under Quentin’s weight. His head flops to the side while Quentin rambles something about his job and how he’d fucked up his life, and he catches sight of his phone lying discarded on the ground.

Okay, Peter. Think.

He needs to roll out from under Quentin, but he’s a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet and Quentin’s at least five inches taller than him. That, and the fact that he’s so weak he’s not sure he could crawl in a straight line, makes his chances of escaping from underneath Quentin right now slim to absolute none.

He needs to even the playing field. His right eye is swollen shut, and the bruises painting his body make every step hurt, but if he can just hurt Quentin a little, just a tiny bit, maybe he’ll be able to get out. And then he can calm down, and by the time he comes out, Quentin’ll be back to normal, back to how he was before.

Right?

He doesn’t have time to elaborate on his plan because Quentin’s hands are wrapped around his neck, squeezing so hard that his eyes fly open, bugging so hard the cold air hurts them. He gasps and his hands fly to Quentin’s hands, his fingers clawing desperately.

His fingertips catch on the ring Quentin wears, something his mother left him when she passed away. Peter remembers the first hit, how it had bruised his cheekbone, and chokes as hot tears leak from his one good eye.

Everything had been so good. Everything had been okay.

He twists and screams, though it only ends up gagging him further. Quentin’s eyes tighten as his vision goes dark, and if he doesn’t do something now, Quentin’s gonna kill him. No doubt about it.

He manages to kick his legs up, thrusting with his lips like it’ll distract Quentin from what he’s really aiming to do. It works in some way, because he loosens his grip just a little and moves slightly, his weight leaving Peter’s hips for a split second.

That’s all he needs.

He throws his legs upwards, his knee slamming straight into the area between Quentin’s armpit and his ribs. He does it with one knee, putting all of his power behind it, and rolls with Quentin to push him off.

It catches him off guard, makes him let go of Peter’s neck entirely, and the smaller man scrambles underneath him, pushing himself away as quickly as he can, even though his head’s thumping and he can’t breathe properly and his vision’s dark and spotty. He clumsily gets to his feet, stumbling as he pushes off from the floor, and grabs hold of his phone before running as fast as his body can possibly go towards the bathroom.

Quentin doesn’t take long to recover and catch up with him, but it’s long enough that Peter has time to pull his tired body into the spare bathroom and lock it behind him.

“Peter?” Quentin asks as Peter slides down the door, his cries echoing in the dim room. “Peter, open the door. Open the fucking door right now!”

He slams his fist on the door and Peter jumps, sobs bubbling at his lips. It hurts as it tears through his throat, noises of heartbreak and agony burning into his memory. He fumbles with his phone and moves to unlock it, his hands shaking so hard that it takes him three attempts to put in a simple four digit code.

He cries all the way through his contacts, deciding who to call. Who would understand him?

Not May, that’s for sure. She already had her doubts about Quentin, and she’d probably have a heart attack if she knew what was happening. Not Ned, either. The boy was incredible and helped him in so many ways, but he would never understand, and just tell Peter some bullshit about leaving.

He’d phone Tony if he wasn’t so terrified of losing his job. He knows Quentin’d make sure he’d never get a job anywhere in the field, and that even though Tony outweighs him by far, he’d never care as much about his opinion as he did Quentin’s.

And he can’t phone Harley, either, because he doesn’t have the card. Quentin must have ripped it, or maybe he still has it, but he’s not about to go out to check.

“Peter?” Quentin says, his voice deceptively lower. “Open this fucking door right now or I swear I’ll tear it off it’s hinges and kill you so slowly you won’t understand anything but pain. You hear me? I’ll fucking kill you, you stupid fucking bitch!”

Peter chokes.

“Emergency services, how can I help?”

Recoiling with a gasp, Peter shakes his head at the phone, muffling his sobs through his hand. He hadn’t even realised he’d called the police, too busy keeping his eyes trained on the door handle that was shaking every time Quentin tugged on it.

“Hello?”

“Uh, um,” Peter stutters, hyperventilating through words. “I, um, uh, I-”

“Sir, are you in danger?”

Quentin bangs on the door again, but it’s louder this time, like he’s throwing his whole body against it. The door rattles, and Peter sobs, his hands shaking so violently that he’s terrified he’s going to drop the phone.

“Uh, yes. Yes, yes, um, yeah.”

How does he say this? How does he say that his boyfriend’s threatening to kill him and he can’t see out of one eye and his throat hurts so much he’s sure he’s going to have permanent damage?

Quentin slams into the door again and the door rattles harder. Peter’s hand drops from his mouth as his legs shake and convulse on the floor, the terror and adrenaline not letting him sit still.

“Police.” He gasps, his chest aching with the words. “My-my boyfriend, he’s-”

He breaks off, sucking in a large breath, terrified that if he speaks anymore his heart’ll slam straight through his chest.

“He’s gonna kill me. Please help me.”

“Sir, can you tell me your address?” The woman on the phone says, but Peter’s too busy crying to answer her. He manages to stutter something out, hopefully the correct address, and focuses on breathing correctly while Quentin pounds at the door.

“Did you just call the police? Did you just call the fucking police on me you worthless fucking bitch?” He screams and Peter flinches, so violent that he drops the phone, its screen lit up with the pain staking knowledge that he’s calling the police on his only love.

“Peter you better open this fucking door right now, right now, you hear me?”

Peter’s cries are so loud, too loud, choked and sniffly and ugly. He can hear something along the door, sliding heavily, and then there’s a thump on the floor.

“Peter...” Quentin whines, his voice high and upset. “Peter, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, please open the door. Please, baby.”

Peter sobs, clenching his hand over his mouth as quick as possible, and crawls gently across the small room to the door, the woman on the phone shouting something at him. He doesn’t care.

“Peter, I-” He sucks in a breath. “I’m sorry. Will you just open the door? Will you open the door, please?”

Peter’s brain short wires. His stomach flips with the ache of missing this Quentin so much that it almost completely outweighs what he’d just done to him. He nods, even though he knows Quentin can’t see him, and reaches up with shaking hands to the door knob. He’s about to give his terms on unlocking it when a smack at the door sends him flinching violently across the floor, his knees to his chest as he cries on the opposite side to the door.

“Can you just open the fucking door?” Quentin had shouted, and slammed his hand against the door probably. “I won’t hurt you if you open the door, baby. I promise.”

Peter still can’t breathe properly, what with the choking and the hyperventilating and the tears. He sucks in a breath, his lungs screaming, and picks up the phone as his vision goes black around the corners.

“-are you?” The woman asks when Peter finally has the strength to pull the phone to his ear. He breathes shakily into it, his head spinning, and wets his lips, speaking while Quentin screams in the background.

“Apar...” He trails off, feeling so lightheaded that he sways against the wall. “Apartment 505.”

And with that, he drops the phone to the floor again, the sound of the woman telling him it’s okay and of Quentin threatening to kill him lulling him into a blind unconscious state. 


End file.
